


gorgeous

by megamegaturtle



Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: Afraid to fall in love again???, Awkward Reid tbh, Awkward reader, F/M, Fluff, Friend dates because real dates are scary, Friends to Lovers, Having fun because cm is a sad show about death and stuff, It's the kind of love that sneaks up on ya, Jokes, Look let's just have a fun time folks, Mutual Pining, POV Second Person, Reader-Insert, Slow Burn, Spence and reader: co-presidents of the heartbroken club, Talking about that real shit like heartbreak and stuff, They are just honestly trying their best, Unexpected Kissing, empowering reader doing her thing, hand holding, kinda accurate government job descriptions, reader tries her best to be her best self
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-26
Updated: 2018-08-27
Packaged: 2019-05-28 20:47:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 23,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15057509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/megamegaturtle/pseuds/megamegaturtle
Summary: You're early for your first day at work, but the universe is a funny thing where butterfly wings cause hurricanes from a wing’s single flutter.A story about how you and Spencer become friends and one day lovers.





	1. Chapter 1

Everything has a beginning and an end and yours starts when you pass through security at 8:05 AM. You're early for your first day at work, but the universe is a funny thing where butterfly wings cause hurricanes from a wing’s single flutter.  Being early by 25 minutes has that effect as well, events brewing in your future that you won’t see until years later. Your every movement spins with faster velocity, creating a pressurized cyclone wherever you go. Gales under your fingertips as the world goes round and round and round.

 

Your true beginning started a few years prior, where you luckily got a job working in the administration and payroll department at your regional Census Bureau Office. Who knew that serendipity laced fingers with surveys and data of the American population? Who knew life held on tight as you moved your trajectory to where you are now?

 

It was a _nice_ pre-beginning, a small start towards a government career you always wanted and maybe you weren't an analyst right then how you dreamed, but payroll paid well and—life in Los Angeles can only be so exciting and—there was a posting in the FBI and—

 

(You have always been defined by your ambitions, by your zeal, your need to strive and chase after things and be better and life had been so stagnant and—)

 

You applied, were interviewed three months later, and waited six months and thirteen days to receive your final offer after that. Waiting and waiting and waiting because bureaucracy is slower than glaciers moving in the Arctic. Slower than drip coffee pods when the machine is clogged. Slower—than waiting for your period to start when you are ten years old because your best friend had hers at nine.

 

(At twelve when it happens, you think maybe it began all too soon. Maybe childhood should have tried a little harder to cling on you.)

 

And then life springs into action, butterfly wings causing hurricanes in the Gulf of Mexico and the Caribbeans and the world is ending as there is an onslaught of terrible news every day and yet—

 

You get a job in the FBI. In a Bureau people actually know by name. A step closer to prestige and recognition as you sign your name on the dotted line of your new contract. A step closer to an image you’ve always wanted for yourself because you want to be someone important. You want and want and _crave_ to be someone important.

 

It’s human nature, you’re told, to see that grass is greener on the other side and you try hard to humble your roots, but the sun shines so bright as the future promises good things for those who work hard. And you’re not the kind that gives up, not the kind that goes home if there is work to be done, not the kind who says _no_ to when opportunity knocks.

 

(Pride will continue to be your biggest folly, a double edged sword that is painfully sharp with a wobbly handle.)

 

You are a new admin and timekeeper clerk for a bureau built on secrets and hidden information. It's a stepping stone like how going to grad school was a stepping stone, how working for the Census was a stepping stone, how this will be a stepping stone to being an analyst or researcher or—  

 

(Anything will do. You just. Want to work with information. You want something fast paced. You want something that makes you think. Puzzles. Calculations. People. And you can be cross trained and transfer because once you’re in, _you’re in_ and you just—you just—  

 

You want to think.)

 

You wear an outfit you've kept from all your precious new beginnings, wearing a milestone ring on one hand, wearing milestone earrings too. Gifts to yourself for being better than you were yesterday. Jewels to reward yourself because someone has to love you and you love yourself. Sometimes. With therapy. Reminders to yourself that hard work will see you through to as many as tomorrows you’re willing to see.

 

You wear a plum colored dress with plum colored lipstick. Contour carves out your cheekbones and you angled dark purple blush to make you look striking. You wear winged eyeliner and waterproof mascara that can thankfully hold a curl. You feel powerful, otherworldly as people smile a bit brighter and the several security guards all comment they have never seen a lipstick match a woman's dress so perfectly.

 

This is your reckoning. A beautiful, colorful storm and no one will ever be ready.

 

(Butterfly wings flutter against your heart and your stomach and metals that wrap around your finger and pierces through your ears anchor you to this moment, become armor from nerves that start to accumulate at the levys, threatening to flood every quarter of your being.)

 

But everything comes back to serendipity, to fate working in mysterious ways and metaphorical hurricanes as you wander the halls of Quantico, looking for Human Resources which is tucked away in some odd room by the vending machines the guard told you about because of remodeling and—

 

You round the corner quickly, happiness and giddiness soaking in your veins as you think of your higher pay grade, a song in your smile. A brilliant tune of glistening silver and persuasive chimes. Earbuds in each ear as you play your favorite song of the moment one more time, the words on your lips and a hum in your heart. Vocal courage, you think, as you sing your most favorite line quietly and maybe too much excitement as you bump into another human being and…

 

All their files go tumbling to the ground, clashing like thin cymbals and fanning like ocean waves.

 

The music that rang with every step  fades as reality comes rushing back, your rose tinted glasses cracking into something useless. You blink once, then twice as the concept of manners come back to you, your mortality recognized as you are filled with acute embarrassment. A surprised gasp escapes your lips as you see the mess scattered around a man’s feet. You tear off your earbuds and tuck them back into your purse, music still blaring from the tiny speakers.

 

Mindful of your dress, you hurriedly get to your knees and help the man pick up the files you rudely knocked away from his person.

 

Papers are everywhere as you collect them, trying to be as neat as you can. Without looking at him, you say, “I am so, so, so sorry. I—ah, today is my first day and I am a bit excited…” you babble. “I just—you know, new career and ah—”

 

(Your pride is a shaky thing, battle armor useless once you interact with another human being and you’re reminded that purple lipstick can’t erase social fumbles.)

 

He laughs, the first sound you hear him make. “No, it’s fine. Thanks for helping me pick these all up.”

 

Your bangs cover your eyes as you grab a page tucked under a bench. “Of course. I hate it when people just like…walk away or something. Biggest pet peeve ever.”

 

He hums in agreement.

 

You two work for a few more moments gathering the fallen files, once you have a generous stack in your hands you look up finally, stunned a little at a smiling handsome face. Long curly hair and hazel eyes greet you as pleasant warmth spreads into your own girn.

 

(Oh, your heart was not ready. Not ready at all for someone so cute this before you had a second cup of coffee.)

 

You check your watch and see it’s about 8:20 AM, panic brushing your insides again as you quietly squawk about the time. You hurriedly stand up as he does the same, noting with abject humor that he towers over your extremely small frame.

 

(He grins a little unexpectedly wider when he realizes you’re so tiny even in heels.)

 

You extend the stack in the space between you and help him gather it into his arms. You adjust the strap of your purse, time ticking in your ears.“I’m sorry about bumping into you again. Hopefully there’ll be no more collisions today. ”

 

He nods, looking at you a little brighter. “Ah, yeah. That might be good.”

 

You smile and wave goodbye at him, glancing down at your watch once more. “Yeah. Anyway, I hope you have a great day, Mystery File Guy. I gotta run and try not to be late for paperwork. Whoo!”

 

He fixes the papers to rest more comfortable in his arms, bidding you a feeble wave. “Good luck on your first day.”

 

“Thanks,” you beam, happiness fluttering in your being.

 

As pride will always be your folly, honesty with always be your strength so you’re not surprised when you pause and let the words fall from your lips in complete sincerity.

 

“By the way, before I go, I just wanted to say you’re really gorgeous and I hope you have an awesome day.”

 

The man snaps his attention at you from a page he was examining, caught off guard as he tries to reply. Honesty colors his expression, the unperceived positivity shocking him. Somehow he whispers his words of thanks.

 

You giggle as you turn on your heel to embark on a new journey in the FBI.

 

(It dawns at you hours later you forget to ask for his name.)

 

(Unbeknownst to you, he thinks the very same.)

 

-

 

You learn his name is Spencer Reid.

 

Doctor Spencer Reid to be precise and this is where everything starts to go downhill because the other day you called a man with eidetic memory _gorgeous_. You called a man with three PhDs and two BAs (maybe three if you heard the humor correctly about philosophy) gorgeous.  And the universe works in funny ways because you’ll be his new timekeeper and write his paychecks and—

 

Dear lord, he’s everything you’ve ever inspired to be wrapped up in a generally nice person as your new supervisor introduces you the Behavioral Analysis Unit and he’s there.

 

The man you bumped into.

 

The one named _Doctor_ Spencer Reid.

 

In the back of your mind, you’re aware that he will not forget this because he does not forget anything and you try not to stutter, but you stutter your name anyway and he gives you a look of confusion because a few days ago you were this striking young woman you told him he was attractive and you know and he knows that and—

 

The universe works in funny ways as your growing admiration for the man before you makes you unable to speak.

 

(He’s everything you’ve ever wanted to be.)

 

(You don’t realize until years later that he’s everything you’ve ever wanted.)

 

-

 

You rarely have to speak to Doctor Reid which makes you count your lucky stars as months go by because talking to him is impossible because you have so many questions and questions and questions and—

 

You might have read a lot of his papers. It begins innocently enough. You’re just Googling him—for science and/or morbid curiosity—and there he is in Google Scholar and then you find his website that a friend runs and… Okay, you don’t really understand the math behind them, but the theories are understandable and you wish you were just as accomplished and talented.

 

And when you hear his name you feel a little more centered and focused because you’ve always needed a goal, you’ve always needed inspiration, and what is more inspiring than watching a young genius be so good at striving?

 

-

 

The East Coast is a little lonely, you think, one early winter day. Sunny California is across a vast continent and maybe, maybe, maybe you were a little rash when you packed up and left because adventure was calling you, but the East Coast is a little lonely.

 

Watercolor art prints and patterned sofa cushions can only keep you so much company. Who will see your teal and golden plates? Who will to come over to play video games and watch movies snuggled under fluffy throw blankets? Who will you invite to dinner one night after you cooked all day?

 

Your lovely apartment isn’t as warm with just one body. You need someone to talk to minus the lonely girl in you find in every mirror you own.

 

(Granted, there is nothing wrong admiring the self, just you can only tell your own joke so many times until it stops being funny.)

 

But friendship finds you fast one morning as you walk to the BAU and find the local tech analyst to certify timesheets for her colleagues.

 

(Sure, you could have dialed her extension, but sitting is the new silent killer and well—there is nothing wrong with meeting people. You can only talk to Mary for so long. The woman could easily be your grandmother.)

 

Your heels click once last time as you stand outside her door, hearing her voice muffled through the thick material. You pause with your fist raised and wait for her to stop speaking, not wanting to interrupt. But after awkwardly standing outside her door for five minutes, you think it’s best to try again later.

 

You sigh to yourself and turn to leave when the door swings wide open.

 

“Oh, a visitor!” she squeaks, asking about your name.

 

You clear your throat and tucking fallen hair behind your ear. “Yep, that’s me. Um, Ms. Garcia, I just wanted you to certify these timesheets are correct? I was told to ask you when Agent Hotchner wasn’t on site.”

 

She’s wearing a lovely shade of oxblood lipstick, her teeth far more than pearly when she smiles at you. “Yeah, the team just finished up their latest case and will be on their way home soon.” She glances at you and moves out of her door. “Come inside and I’ll sign these for you, alright?”

 

You nod and enter her office. There are computer monitors everywhere, much like a spy movie. “Thank you, if I’m not too much a bother. You seemed—like you were about to maybe leave?”

 

She plops herself in a rolly chair and laughs, logging back into her computer to e-sign if she needs to. “I sometimes get a little stir crazy in here, but my precious angels saved the day as usual so I thought I would get some fancy coffee or something.”

 

You like her outfit, you like the swirls and shapes of her dress. You like her snowflake earrings and headband and the way she smiled when she saw you was so cute you can’t help but ask.

 

“I’m about to go on my lunch. We can...we can go together if you’d like?”

 

(Winter is such a lonely season and you're desperate to connect with someone, to make sure that this move was worth it.)

 

Ms. Garcia peeks at you over the rim of her glasses, a friendliness in her very smile. “I think I’d like that very much. Lord knows I have to know where you got your blush!”

 

You laugh and find that in the months to come, things are less lonely with a new friend.

 

(The answer is you shop indie; loose powder blushes are best with a light hand.)

 

-

 

You go home for Christmas and run into your ex-boyfriend. Your heart calls out to him, wanting so much to pick up where you left off because you haven't stopped loving him yet.

 

He's smart, makes you laugh, is the one you've known for so long, that that familiarity is hard to replace.

 

As he kisses you, you realize he feels the same.

 

(He told you once that his home is California, but now he tells you that his home is with you.

 

A dark part of you wonders how long he’ll keep this claim.)

-

 

Winter snow melts and the seeds you planted in your friendship with Penelope bloom into soft laughter and happy conversations. You have someone whose office you run towards when paperwork gets boring and—

 

And she listens to your hopes and dreams as you crave to do more.

 

“My job,” you tell her, “is stupidly easy. Everything I do is stupidly easy which is fun and all, but I just…want to do more.”

 

Penelope laughs. “Okay, but I think payroll would hard. Like, really, dollface, there is nothing simple you do.”

 

You shake your head. “Nah, I used to work at a car dealership and I had to do all the math by hand. I had to learn how to do sales commissions by hand in about a month’s time. And while it was time consuming, even that wasn’t that hard. They’re just numbers, you know?” You groan. “I was just hoping for something a bit more fast paced, but I finish all my work so quickly and stuff? They’re running out of new tasks for me to learn because I keep getting them all.”

 

Penelope takes a sip of her coffee. “You should come work for me. I’d keep you busy! Plus, the department over here is a little understaffed in general.”

 

“Haha, maybe I can come train with you at least when I finish some of my other work?”

 

Garcia looks at you, thoughtful for a moment, and then grins. “Let me see what I can do.”

 

-

 

You get caught in an elevator with Doctor Reid. You avoid speaking to him still, but you have a notification setup that you get an email if he writes a new paper.

 

His latest one was about the mathematics for poetry formatting in books and how there is an algorithm to which poems are deemed best. It was a lovely weekend morning read. You left an anonymous comment on the journal’s page.

 

(You dug out your grad dissertation on universal global feminism and you’ve always wanted to rewrite it and submit for publication. You started a new document on Sunday.)

 

“Good morning,” he says.

 

You mumble the greeting in return, wincing internally that this will only add to your fumble tally.

 

He notices your bracelet, a lovely arrangement of turquoise cast in silver. A gift from your grandfather.

 

“Did you know,” he starts, “that the ancient Egyptians thought turquoise was a holy stone that brought good luck? And it’s goddess, Hathor, was a cow goddess and the mother, wife and daughter of the sun god, Ra. She was known as ‘Lady of Turquoise’, ‘Mistress of Turquoise’ and ‘Lady of Turquoise Country’.”

 

You briefly glance at him, taking a mental note to look up more about her when you get home. You’re about to respond, say please continue, enquire more because you want to know more...when the elevator dings and you—and you—

 

—panic as usual.

 

You brush by him, whispering, “Interesting.”

 

(You’re reminded when you had a Japanese teacher in college who told that Americans only say “interesting” when there is nothing nicer to say, but you know that’s not true. It was interesting and fascinating and left you wanting more! You know it’s not true, you just can’t…befriend Doctor Reid.     

 

He’s far too cool to be your friend, you think.)

 

-

 

Long distance is hard, but seeing Matthew’s face after a long day is worth so much. It’s dark in your room, your hair in a lazy bun with your big headphones your ears as you both video chat.

 

It’s getting close to 1:00 AM and you’re rambling about what happened in the elevator the other day. How awkward you were, how adorable Doctor Reid was.

 

Matt laughs, his voice a familiar balm for your anxiety. “Babe, I hate to break it to you, but it sounds like you have a crush on this doctor guy,” he tells you with an easy smile.

 

You loudly snort and bury your face in your pillow. “Matt, don't be ridiculous! Besides the only doctor I need is the one who I'm gonna marry,” you tease.

 

(Marriage is a fickle subject for you, both wanting a future together, but each of you stepping forward and back and your feelings hardly sync.)

 

He pauses for a moment, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Well...if I get into Georgetown, then I think I can make that a reality.”

 

-

 

Doctor Reid’s comment in the elevator starts a fixation on knowing the meaning on every stone you own.

 

Pearls are for wisdom acquired through experience. They are also used to calm oneself and to balance out one’s karma. Natural pearls form when an irritant - usually a parasite and not the proverbial grain of sand - works its way into an oyster, mussel, or clam. As a defense mechanism, a fluid is used to coat the irritant. Layer upon layer of this coating, called 'nacre', is deposited until a lustrous pearl is formed.

 

Diamonds are created out of pure carbon. They have very strong crystal structure where the carbon atoms in the crystal are especially strongly bonded. They can form octahedral (classical diamond), trapezoidal and dodecahedral crystals. Diamonds represent faithfulness, love, purity, innocence, and relationships filled with love.

 

Emeralds are for hope; to help tranquilize a troubled mind. The characteristic live green color of this stone originates from chromium impurities built-in within its crystal structure at the positions of aluminum.  Emeralds come from a stone called beryl. Lots of stones come for beryl.

 

For example, if there is too much blue in it, then it is an aquamarine. The Romans believed that if the figure of a frog were carved on an aquamarine, it served to reconcile enemies and make them friends.

 

(You’re not sure if Doctor Reid would appreciate a frog carved on an aquamarine.)

 

-

 

Two months later your supervisor calls you into her office and informs you that on Mondays and Wednesdays you will begin cross training with Penelope Garcia, provided there is no payroll that needs to be completed.

 

Butterfly wings find welcome in your heart again as your run back to your desk dialing her extension. She picks up on the very first ring.

 

“Thank you for dialing Penelope, the Fairy Godmother for admin clerks!”

 

You whisper loudly into the phone. “What did you do?”

 

Penelope chuckles and you can hear her shrug. “Nothing minus give you a challenge. Plus, if I train you, I can take more vacation days.”

 

You sink into your seat, disbelief seeping from your pores as you try to wrap your mind around everything. “But Garcia, I only know basic IT. I can’t even hack anything or anyone.”

 

“Oh, don’t worry, my sweet. You’re the one that said you’re a quick study.”

 

You scoff. “I meant for like! Simple things! I’m really not that smart.”

 

Garcia’s voice is warm over the phone. “Oh, I’ll be the judge of that. If you’re no good, I’ll send you back to admin full-time, but for now, be ready for next week!”

 

-

 

Your mother tells you she's so proud of you. So very proud of the young woman you’re becoming, happy that you’re seeking out good things out for yourself, so pleased that you’re living a life she didn’t get to have.

 

Matthew is oddly quiet at the news. He only sends a small congratulatory text and then proceeds to tell you about his day. He had avocado toast and is helping contribute to why millennials can’t afford houses.

 

It really bothers you when he does that. Ignores your successes because he thinks things are a competition between the two of you. Ignores your good things to shadow them with his bad.

 

(Recently he mentioned about applying to UCLA again. That California is a wonderful place and—

 

You tell yourself to be patient and just wait.)

 

-

 

You’ve always been one to like getting your feet wet, you’ve bragged enough times how you just jump into things without thinking it through. And the same is true come that Monday when the BAU is already hard on a case and you shadow and watch Garcia with amazing speed find all the information she needs.

 

You sit and shadow her, awe and fear rolling off you in waves.

 

-

 

Your mind spins after that first case, trying to keep up with everything, but you heart hammers happily in your chest and you feel breathless as you reason that you’ve been looking for this all along and—

 

Garcia smiles at you, warm and inviting.

 

“Show me what you can do, Miss Smartypants.”

 

(Lives were saved that day and you were apart of that.)

 

-

 

You properly meet Special Agent Derek Morgan on a night out with Penelope for dinner. His warm brown eyes size you up, see if you’re authentic or made of lies.

 

(Since you started therapy years ago, you no longer need to stitch yourself with false truths.)

 

You proudly grab his hand and give him a firm shake. “It’s wonderful to finally meet you. Penelope says you’re the light of her life.”

 

His smile widens as his fingers wrap around yours. “You know, my Baby Girl says the exact thing about you. Says you’re one of the smartest kids she knows.”

 

You scoff at that and roll your eyes. “She’s a flatterer who only wants vacation days. Truly, I have a wonderful mentor though.”

 

You sit with them on a late spring evening, enjoying good food and great company.

 

(You’re finding roots here, finding a home as people slowly begin to enter your life and call you their own.)

 

-

 

You mother calls you sounding tired. Her cancer has come back, but she goes to chemo every three weeks and is doing well.

 

You wish you weren’t so far from home, but she tells you she’s proud of you, proud of what you’re doing, proud of who you’ve become.

 

“You’re like me, my love, always chasing after something better.”

 

-

 

You see Doctor Reid in your local bookstore, browsing for something new to read. You’re doing much the same, perusing the oh so stimulating romance section.

 

You could say “hello” or ask what he’s reading next. You could ask him if he prefers paper or e-ink. You can ask him if he’d like to chat or discuss the weather or...

 

You could ask him a lot of things, but for some reason, anytime you see him, your bravery runs away.

 

(You don’t know this, but he sees you too. He’s at the same crossroads trying to befriend you.)

-

 

Penelope’s smile is so wide when you enter her office, two coffees in hand. “Why are you so happy?”

 

She spins in her seat and sighs with glee. “Oh, my wonderful and local genius has a girlfriend and _gah_ , it makes me so happy!”

 

You giggle, “Well, that sure does sound wonderful! Congrats?”

 

She babbles about super genius babies as your mind drifts away. You wonder when your boyfriend will trek out East like you did too.

 

-

 

Doctor Reid doesn’t write for a long while. Can’t when you find out from a weepy Penelope that his girlfriend was murdered in front of him.

 

(He didn’t even touch her once and you find that’s far too intimate of information about a man you don’t even know and—)

 

You weren’t there when it happened, not training or shadowing. You went home to sunny California to visit your family and loved ones and yet—

 

Who knew that nine days away could change everything in a man’s life?

 

(Butterfly wings create hurricanes after hurricanes after hurricanes.)

 

-

 

Matthew breaks up with you via text.

 

_I love you, but moving to the East Coast can't be part of my plans._

 

The message flashes over and over in your mind as you jab a punching bag. You don’t really know how to use a punching bag, but that’s besides the point as you smack at it away anyway. And since you don’t get field time, there’s no reason for you to have a gun. And maybe when someone is so angry, they shouldn’t want to practice shooting for the first time at the range.

 

You jab too swiftly to the right and your wrist bends in a way you’re positive it’s not supposed to and you hiss out in pain. In a fit, you kick the punching bag and it does little to soothe your building rage.

 

“Hey, hey, hey,” a concern voice says. It’s warm and kind, like milk and honey. “Pretty sure pretty girls like you should know how to put up a fight.”

 

You roll your eyes and cradle your wrist. “Hey, Morgan,” you say flatly.  

 

He gestures to take a look at your wrist and he happily decides it's not broken. “So, what’s his name and how should I hurt him?”

 

He puts up both his fists and your mirror him, following his motions as he shows you how to punch correctly. You smile for the first time since this morning.

 

“His name is asshole and good riddance!”

 

(The calluses on your knuckles do little to ease your broken heart.)

 

-

 

Butterfly wings cause hurricanes and you’re sitting at a used car lot alone signing the contract for a 2012 BRZ in white. You’ve always wanted a sports car, wanted to learn how to fix one up, have a nice car to drive on pretty days, have one to call yours and—

 

Matthew didn’t think getting a second car would be worth it, said weekend cars were lame and—

 

—you realize once again, that things just aren’t the same.  

 

You’re not very good at driving manual, and you stall about five times on the way home, but it’s okay.

 

-

 

Doctor Reid doesn’t come back to work right away. That makes sense. The love of his life just died in a most violent way.

 

But that doesn’t mean you don’t hurt a little, don’t feel any empathy. A life is gone from this world and now there seems to be a light missing.

 

(Will she be a star that watches over him and protects him? Does he even believe in those things?)

 

You might not be his friend, might never actually talk to him because he makes you tongue tied because you’re constantly afraid of fucking up in front of him so you always fuck up in front of him—

 

But that doesn’t mean you can’t send him your sympathies in an unsigned card, your heart going out to him as his remains missing.

 

(You kinda get the feeling.)

 

-

 

You might be, _might be_ running yourself ragged as the months go on. Torn between payroll and the BAU, you can never get a moment’s rest. You’re in Garcia’s office more than just on Mondays and Wednesday. You’re there all the time, trying to soak up as much information as possible, learning the ins and the outs of her system, learning how to use computers in a way you’ve never thought before.

 

(You might use binary code to wash away every trace of Matthew from your mind. Try and try to forget him and just achieve.)

 

You’re taking over her little tasks slowly. Soon, you’ll run all of the inventory for all the field agents in the region, you’ll fix small problems, reset passwords, keep the world going and going as Garcia saves lives.

 

It’s hard work, being backup, but you go forth and try your best because this—this is what you’ve wanted all along.

 

-

 

It’s late one night as your eyes feel like they’re going to pool from your head. It was a payroll day and everything bad happens on payroll day, but you stay late in Garcia’s office long after she’s gone home to better familiarize yourself with her system.

 

It’s not hard, but there is a learning curve and just _remembering_ all the things, all the little odds and ends.

 

Garcia is making you code a new program. She said it would be good to understand computer pathways. You want to pound your head against the desk, but you—you’re not the kind to give up. You’re almost there. You can do this by yourself because one day she won’t be here and you’ll have to help the team.

 

You refuse to give up and back away when you’re so close to something exciting and new and—

 

You see Doctor Reid pouring over paperwork when you go to get coffee and you feel slightly more renewed. If he can do it, then you can do it too.

 

You sit and close your eyes for a moment, finding yourself caught in the suspended reality of your body nodding off to sleep while your mind races. Black spots fill your vision despite you’re sure you’re still awake, but you’re not.

 

You wake hours later at the table in the kitchenette with a worn sweater around your shoulders.

 

(It looks oddly familiar.)

 

-

 

Fall welcomes you with open arms as you find yourself in Special Agent Aaron Hotchner's office a bright morning. You woke up at five, unable to sleep because today is the day and butterflies are swarming with every heartbeat.

 

You decided to wear dark red today with lipstick that looks much the same. You adorn yourself in pearls, praying for wisdom and maturity, for—

 

(Please remember to breathe, one breath, then two. In and out, out and in.)

 

You can—you can do this.

 

Hotchner sits across a dark wooden desk, a neutral expression on his face. “I see there is something you’d like to talk to me about?”

 

You nod, refusing to break under pressure because the man can read every micro expression. He can’t know there is tension between your shoulder blades. He also can’t know that it’s taking everything you have to not bounce your leg as nerves course through your whole body.

 

But the universe works in funny ways as it did almost two years ago, and events lead you to here as you catch a glimpse of Doctor Reid and you remember that this is where the man you most admire works and this is place your dearest friend works.

 

And this is the place you feel like you’ll belong because you’ve always been defined by your ambitions and this is no stepping stone, but somewhere you clawed to get to as you stayed up late for countless nights and learned how to code a computer in less than a year’s time and—

 

You square your shoulders back and let pride sing like your favorite song lyric.

 

You grab your resume and letter of reference from the folder sitting across your lap and push them across his desk. You read about this, performing a power play like successful businessman.

 

“I think it’s time you hire me, sir.”

 

Special Agent Aaron Hotchner gives you the briefest of pleased smirks as he takes your papers.

 

“Go on.”

 

-

 

Everything has a beginning and an end and yours starts when you pass through security at 8:05 AM. You're early for your first day at work, but the universe is a funny thing where you cause hurricanes because you have butterfly wings.

 

You greet the security team as you have done each morning, the sun shining brighter as it glistens spectacularly from a diamond milestone ring. It glows and sparkles with promises of a better future to come. You performed a small ceremony between you and this new opportunity.

 

You make your way up the elevators, finding friendly faces along the way. Today is a beginning, a new one for you, one you didn’t think you’d find but yet—

 

You’re the newest technician specialist for the BAU and they haven’t seen anything yet.

 

You’re ready.

 

You meet Hotchner in his office as he extends a warm hand and takes you to the meeting room where you are formally introduced to your new colleagues as Garcia’s new subordinate who will also do admin, payroll, IT, filing, inventory, and much more for the team.

 

“A jack of all trades, a master of none…” you start to say.

 

“...but better than being a master of one,” Doctor Reid finishes for you. He offers a small smile, an attempt, perhaps an olive branch.

 

(You want to reach out, you want to accept it like how Athena would want you to, but fear flashes fire in front of you and you...can’t.)

 

You swallow, your heart thudding in your chest, your smile falling, your tone more flat.

 

“Yes. Exactly.”

 

His own smile disappears, a slow descent like embers in the wind.

 

(Oh, you think with shaky feelings, maybe you’re not completely ready.)

 

-

 

You surprise the team with your efficiency, surprise them especially when you carry a crate and set up your desk in a half hour’s time. Your kettle sits on the corner of your desk, filled to the brim with steaming water.

 

You set up your packets of tea and line them up accordingly, place the sweetener in their container, organize your lipsticks and rollerball perfume bottles in their selected bin. You have knickknacks and things and a small plant.

 

You already knew which supplies you wanted, place every pen where it needs to go, setup your desktop and login, rearing and ready to go.

 

You surprise them with the snacks you have, always prepared with a bandaid and lint roller and anything thing one needs off hand.

 

You surprise them when you expedite their things and find files they need before they ask. You surprise them with extra thoughtfulness.

 

It’s only been two weeks.

 

(You ignore that your desk seats across from Doctor Spencer Reid. You ignore that fact, but you still politely offer him tea.

 

You no longer stutter, but butterflies dance on your tongue, the beats of their wings taking the rest of your words with them.)

 

-

 

You both politely exchange “hello” and “goodbyes” and work well enough when he requires something of you, but there’s a distance that stretches two years long of fumbles and weirdness and you’re not sure exactly how to take it away.

 

(You know he remembers every mistake. You know he knows ever ill attempt. You know he knows a lot of things, but you doubt he knows that you just want to be his friend.)

 

You know it’s wrong how you are able to laugh with the team, you being you and slipping your way to patch up the cracks effectively. It’s just how you are, you see the problem and fix it because you’re a fixer and—

 

—it’s so wrong when you can’t fix the awkwardness that sticks to you whenever you see Reid.

 

-

 

JJ smiles at you, but there is a distance in her smile, the same sizing you up, the same decision on the tip of her tongue that Morgan once gave you. She wants to know if you’re good enough, if you are quick enough, if you are enough.

 

She’s just too polite to directly ask.

 

You learn quickly that Doctor Reid is someone she cherishes most in the world, an underlying easiness and trust between them. Her son is the doctor’s godson. A bond of family and forever intertwining their lives.

 

However, there's a barrier between you and her as you continue to unsettle her.

 

And you're not sure how to branch the divide. How does one cross a desert in the middle of a sandstorm? How does one exit a forest but have no map? Yet the universe works in the funny ways and you find her struggling to carry heavy boxes. Wordlessly you take some from her and give her a hesitant from.

 

“Hi.”

 

JJ blinks then acknowledges you slowly. “...hey.”

 

“Tell me where to go, yeah?”

 

She blinks again, her mouth in a twitching line as thoughts speed through her head. After another pause, she nods and gestures not too far down the hall. “Follow me.”

 

It's a little stilted, but not impossible as you help her lift crates from one room to the next. There's a slight tension in the air; however, it does not hurt you. You don't mind. You're just trying to not dirty your dress.

 

After many quiet minutes, she gestures around the room. “Thanks,” she says as she wipes her hands on her jeans. “For everything. You're actually doing an awesome job.”

 

You feel warm at the unexpected praise, as if permafrost is melting. “Thank you,” you bashfully reply. “I'm still really nervous and I triple check everything no matter how small the job.”

 

Her firm mouth softens, understanding present in her blue eyes.”I was just like that when I first started. From media liaison to actual agent, micromanaging will always be my forte.”

 

You nod, sitting down and twisting your diamond ring. “Yeah, my business brain is good at it. It likes everything nice and organized.”

 

“Business brain?”

 

Your gaze meets her slightly before going back to your ring. “Yep, business brain. I’m much more relaxed when I’m not working. More chill, I guess? I just get really focused when I’m working so when I’m at home I kinda just...let my mind wander? Disarray doesn’t bother me as much and I’m quite messy much to my mother’s frustration.”

 

For the first time since you’ve met her, you hear JJ laugh because of you and it’s a nice sound. A bit warm and kind like she is. “I definitely know that feeling. The tunnel vision is real and by the time I get home, I just want to kiss my kid and husband. Who cares about dirty dishes when you get to lay in bed?”

 

Even though the two of you stand on opposite cliffs, the gap between you and JJ closes a bit more that day.

 

-

 

There will always be a gap between you, between the awkwardness that surrounds you when Doctor Reid is concerned. And he is one of JJ’s most precious people, a bond between them only needing glances, brimming smiles and inside jokes and—

 

JJ is more fond of you now, but you will not forget where her loyalty lies.

 

Will not forget where _all_ their loyalties lie.

 

-

You have desks scattered around the office as the weeks go by and after forty-one days, you’ve accepted that your most central desk will continue to be the one right across from Doctor Reid. You tried to make yourself at home by one down the hall near the windows, in Penelope’s bat cave, and even at a small kiosk by counterintelligence.

 

But home is where your kettle is and the desk closet to the filtered water and the bathroom happens to also be the same once near Doctor Reid.

 

So you accept your fate and call that desk your home base, slowly giving that name to tell others where to find you if they need you. You say it in your emails, in your phone messages, in conversations had briefly in the halls.

 

“If you need me, I’ll be at my home base. The desk right across from Doctor Reid’s.”

 

(Of course, the other three get names as well: the windows, the bat cave, and the boondocks.)

 

But home base is yours as much as it is his in a way. It’s easier when he’s not there, when the whole team is away on a case and you can _breathe_ without his all remembering eyes keeping detail of your every action. There is a freedom in doing the tasks without distractions and Doctor Reid’s eyes are inquisitive and curious things that follow your many movements throughout the day.

 

It’s unintentional, of course, the way his sight falls on your form when you’re there sitting across from him. They are not of lingering looks of longing from a lover or even jaded jealousy or fracturing frustration at the constant chatter. No, they are just learning eyes that can’t help but soak up information with their movement.

 

Maybe it comes from the fact that people have the eyes of a predator, always looking forward, always stalking, always hunting in slow motions. That humans have only survived so long by the ability to endure slowly, by always following, by tracing and remembering every detail. By pure stamina alone.

 

Sometimes you wonder if the Doctor realizes he’s a predator of memorization—of knowledge—his gift as easy as breathing, his mind a shimmering wonder. It—he—his mind unerves you. By one look and you feel exposed and the butterflies in your chest cavity break free and you feel very alone.

 

But you are just as human as he is, you think, so you continue to endure, continue to also look forward as you help a colleague reset his email and meet the Doctor’s quick instinctual glance with your heart hammering against your chest in both uncertainty and admiration.

 

If only you can be a predator of knowledge as he is, the world a book for your to reveal in every detail without forgetting, perhaps you would look at others so innocently and kindly without regard to their notice of your every movement.

 

-

 

You rarely speak full conversations with Doctor Reid. They are speechless and brief encounters as he tries to get you to open up. Mainly you just nod and listen before dashing. If you’re lucky, you avoid him before he sees you. But on the off chance you haven’t hidden yourself somewhere away in the vast building, he tries to talk to you.

 

(Bless him. Bless him because you’re awkward and you know that you shouldn’t be afraid but—

 

—the lingering fear of him always remembering your fumbles stops you from continuing.)  

 

He’s tried jokes. Awful jokes about philosophy and physics. Little literary tidbits that delight your day. You smile small, your face feeling tight and you mutter you ever rude American interesting again and again and again.

 

Sometimes you switch it up. Sometimes you say “I see”.

 

But of course when you go home and have time to process, you cackle at his hilarity

 

He’s tried greeting you, asking you about your day, asks what you’re doing, but his very existence causes your hair to stands on ends and you don’t know why and you trying and so—you barely answer him.

 

“Hello.”

 

“It’s going well.”

 

“Working.”  

 

Today you promise—will be different. You cannot continue to be like this around him as you grow closer to the people he loves most. You promised it will be different the day before and the day before that. But today’s a new day and you’re making coffee—

 

You feel cheerful at a dumb mug that’s ages older than you from your mother. A stupid mug for a worker in the cog and it’s faded yellow with the inside all marked up. You love this mug more than anything in the world because it reminds you how much time has passed since you were a little girl.

 

And you’ve always wanted to be just as hardworking, just as strong and powerful as the woman who raised you by herself for years and years and years until she found good love sometime later. You’ve always admired her and wanted to be like her and there was this dumb mug of hers that she said would be yours one day if you worked hard enough and—

 

It showed up in the mail a week ago, filled with all the sweets you adore most.  Tucked inside rested a folded up note with her praise written carefully.

 

_For my child, who has done everything I’ve ever wanted to accomplish and more. Who makes me proud every day and who will always be better than her yesterdays._

 

_Love you more than anything in the world,_

_Mom_

 

Joy surges deep within as you take a sip of coffee made from your press. Also a present that came with the mug. A glorious French press to only add to your stylish ambiance you’ve spent years crafting. Shining stainless steel glistening and gleaming as hot water simmers coarse ground beans into something delicious.

 

You feel a little complete, your back straighter than other days. Today will be the day you stop being a chicken and finally cease the awkwardness around Doctor Reid. It just has to be. You mote it be.

 

He comes in not too long after you’ve settled down while going over inventory for the department. He says hello to Morgan and Blake, and situates himself at his desk. He’s a little late, you notice, knowing that punctuality is important to him, but you ignore his slight frazzled rush as you recount the number of items you’re ordering.

 

Anxiety cements your stomach as you force yourself to look up and brave him a smile. You know it’s not your best, but you try as you steady your mug in your hand.  

 

“Good morning, Doctor,” you say, meeting hazel eyes.

 

The mug is warm in your hands as you bring it to your lips to sip. You mentally pat yourself on the back.

 

He stares at you for a moment and gives you a tight nod. “Morning.”

 

In a flash, as if an idea has come to him, he’s searching for a paper in his stacks on his desk and you return to your inventory counting. It’s a start, you think. Just enough of something that you find yourself grinning a bit to yourself. You tally up the amount of one item and you’re quickly on to the next when he addresses you offhandedly.

 

“You know, you are lucky to work here,” he says.

 

Your pencil halts in your hand, a milimeter away from making a new checkmark in its column before you are entirely distracted. You swallow. You look back up, seeing he’s completely immersed in his search.

 

“I’m sorry, can you repeat yourself?”

 

Doctor Reid looks at you and smirks, though there is an oddness in his expression and you’re not able to quite place it. It...it unnerves you.  “Yeah, I said that you’re lucky to work here.”

 

You blink and stop breathing. Anxiety clings to every part of you, you replaying his words on loop. And he’s right, because it’s only by dumb luck you’ve ended up on this team and hard work can only get your so far and you’ve seen talented and it’s comprised entirely of the BAU and—

 

The gap between the two of you widens beyond compare and you’ll never be his equal—its just not possible—and he’s knows that. He has all seeing remembering eyes, Penelope the greatest tech whiz on the planet, the list goes on and on and you count each thing in lightning speed and—

 

(Oh my, you might need to write this shit down later to talk about in therapy.)

 

You nod only once, getting to your feet and grabbing your cell phone. You clutch it so tight you’re afraid it will snap, the intensity hurting your knuckles.

 

“Duly...duly noted, sir,” you say quietly. A crashing train rings in your ears. Your mouth is dry. “There’s coffee cake in the break room if you’d like any…”

 

In the corner of your eye, you see Morgan start to rise. You can’t bare to look at Doctor Reid and ignore further still when he calls your name. You can’t look at any of them, the difference between them and you so striking. It makes the diamond ring on your finger turn into lead.

 

Tightness expands in your chest, but you expel it instantly when you see a supervisor is calling you. And supervisors don’t care if you’re in the middle of reevaluating your self worth.

 

“Hello, BAU Automation. How can I help you?”

 

You escape the rest of the day from the prying eyes of the profilers of the BAU. You ignore their looks and you don’t see Reid for the rest of the day. You count your blessings. Each one a soothing balm on the burns upon your skin and your heart and your disposition.

 

You are in the break room washing the coffee cake platter that you realize you haven’t washed your mug from this morning. Coffee was long forgotten as your heart sped up too much for you to stand.  Makes you too antsy when you’re already in turmoil, you stomach too weak and your nerves too strong. When you get back to your desk, memories of this morning smack you with clarity as everything begins to make sense.

 

 _You’re lucky to work here_ , he said. _You’re lucky to work here_ , he said, he said, he said.

 

Shame floods you instantly as embarrassment comes like an unwanted bully taunting you. Your mistakes laughing at you once again as your mind thought too far ahead without all the facts. Without asking. Without understanding.

 

(You’re a selfish creature, it seems. Sometimes caught up in your own mind on your own time without a care in the world for others.

 

Oh, what a stupid and foolish girl you truly are.)

 

For there, written as plain to see in red letters is the phrase: _tell me again how lucky I am to work here again._

 

-

 

Penelope confronts you first about it, catching you in the kitchenette as you fill up your kettle.

 

“Hey, lovely, I don’t know how to say this, but—”

 

You stiffen for a moment, before bowing your head, accepting what fate has in store for you.  “Please be blunt. I’m sure whatever you’re going to say won’t be that bad.”

 

You hear her swallow as she leans against the counter. “Well, as your closest friend on the team, we just—have kinda noticed—”

 

(You wince. You know. You know what she’s going to say. You know.)

 

“You’re really weird with Reid. And it’s super _weird_ because you’re so nice and I’m pretty sure you actually read his articles and I was wondering if you—maybe had feelings? For him?”

 

Her words hang in the air, a squeaky echo that rings with your very heartbeat as everything comes swinging back in full motion.

 

You slam on all metaphorical breaks and refuse to let this conversation continue down this road.  Refuse to take your heart down this road. You shake your head and groan. “No, no. Just. I don’t have a crush on him. I just—” you sigh and sit at the nearby table. “I just—”

 

Penelope grabs your hand and gives it a squeeze. “Did he do something wrong? Is that what it is?”

 

You laugh and feel heat spreading to your face. You can’t believe you’re about to say this. To someone who you work with because you’ve only talked about this with people detached from your job.  “No, I just...really...stupidly admire him and he...intimidates me…because I think he’s one of the most remarkable people on the planet....”

 

(In fact, you told your therapist the same thing two weeks ago when you saw her last. Before the whole cup debacle, you told her how you were failing at this one attempt of friendship and you were watching everything go downhill in a fiery crash.)    

 

Penelope blinks, her mouth forming a little “o”. She tries to speak, but laughs instead. Such a delighted sound spills from her and you want to bury yourself in quicksand knowing that it will never be like the cartoons.

 

“Oh, that’s rather sweet.”

 

You rest your head on your forearms. “No, it’s anything but sweet. It’s really weird and I keep obsessing that he remembers every stupid fuck up I’ve done so I fuck up more and...Penelope, it’s freaking awful. So yeah, there you go. I admire him very much and he gives me intense anxiety.”  

 

Penelope leans forward, her cheek resting in her palm. “I don't think I've ever heard anyone say that Reid gives them anxiety, let alone intense anxiety.”

 

You look at her straight in the eye. “Penelope, that man is a demigod and terrifying. Terrifying!”

 

She chuckles again, her eyes warm. “Sweetie, this is Spencer we’re talking about. He’s a bonafide dweeb,” she declares with mirth. “I should know. He and I are the greatest of geek buddies!” She pauses for a moment before her eyes narrow. “Hey! Why is he a demigod and I’m not a revered goddess?”

 

This time you laugh, a true smile digging into your cheeks. “No, no. Don’t worry, my dear. You are most def a terrifying goddess, but I happen to love you.”

 

Penelope stills before melting in her seat. “Oh my god, I love you too, you sweetest of sweet talkers.” She captures your hand in hers again, mischief and happiness dancing in her eyes. “But still, there’s no need to be afraid of Spencer, he’s just a dweeb.”

 

You focus on the texture of her skin as your heart thuds in your chest, your mouth in an awkward line.

 

“Sure, Penelope. Whatever you say.”  

  


-

 

A few days pass in relative quietness as the team is away on training. You’re praying that perhaps, just this once, Doctor Reid will be able to forget everything. Just once. Just one time and you’ll go back to your normal life where you’ll continue to be awkward and weird and—well, that’s the status quo you know and you’re gonna fucking stick with it if it kills you.  

 

Because, okay, sure. You fucked up the other day, but today is the day! And yes, the status quo is awkward and weird, but you’re such a glutton for punishment, such a person who survives on succeeding, that you go back to the drawing board and will yourself to try again.

 

But of course, you’re an overachiever. A frightened and terrified overachiever, but one nonetheless.

 

So, you do the one thing you’re elementary school teacher told you to do: you write him a letter.

 

A hastily written letter detailing your vague explanations for your odd behavior. Your apologies are peppered with compliments and fear sprinkling in loopy misspelled words.  You write only one page length, refusing to pen a novel. Because even you have standards when it comes to desperations and it has been two years of awkward miscommunications for this to continue any longer.

 

You stick it under his stapler and hopes he doesn’t notice it right away when he first comes in. You’re already knee deep in updating all the property passes for cell phones right now in the department, finding your stride as you listen to movie and video game soundtrack scores.

 

(You read somewhere that those kind of scores are good for keeping concentration.)

 

Doctor Reid pauses for a moment as he settles his bag down, his ears straining to hear what you’re listening to.  You can feel his curious gaze wash over you as you continue to do your work, but you lightly swallow and glance up at him.

 

“Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood soundtrack. It’s an anime,” you say. Your voice sounds muffled as you continue to stare at the screen.

 

In your perphiary, you see him nod. Someone across the room catches his attention and he leaves his desk before he even sits down.

 

You ignore the part of you that wants him to notice the letter. You know that if he does, then things will change and change is hard and—it’s a lot easier listening to the part of you that hopes he never finds it because things can continue as they are.

 

You let out a breath and answer an email instead, finding out that Kevin needs you down in counterintelligence to help one of his guys with a password issue. It will be a welcome break from the waiting.

 

Or dreading.

 

(While you’re away, Reid finally notices a note under his stapler.)

 

-

 

An hour later after dumb conversations, you finally wind your way back home to your desk to suffer under property passes when Doctor Reid all but slides up to you.

 

You yelp, placing a hand over your heart. “Oh my god, you scared me.”

 

His mouth is in a firm line, holding something in his hand. “Like how I scare you daily or…?”

 

Your eyes drift to the paper, thoroughly crinkled now after you last saw it. “I—I think the words I used were intimidating and awe inspiring. It’s truly a compliment.”

 

He quirks a brow, his mouth twisting more with displeasure. “A compliment? Seriously?”

 

You take a step back, finding air in your lungs again as you assess the situation. You’re tired of the tension that simmers between the two of you. You’re reminded of a rubber band.

 

You shrug, putting on false airs. “Yeah, a compliment. You make me speechless and that’s kinda remarkable.”

 

Doctor Reid looks down, the paper crackling in his hand. “That’s really sad.”

 

Your heart is beating like thunder in your chest. You’ve been avoiding this like the plague because confrontation is hard and you’re—not as amazing as you claim to be. You’re just a person.

 

(And so is he.)  

 

(And so is he.)

 

And relief rains down over you as you feel a giggle bubble in your chest. Doctor Reid snaps his attention to you, confusion marking his features.

 

“Are...are you okay?”

 

You suck in a quick breath of air, nodding. “Yeah, yeah. I’m just—oh god, this sounds so stupid, but I feel so much better now.” You smile is wide as you look at him, your shoulders feeling less tense and the world a bit more bright. “I’m sorry for being weird, but can we start over?”

 

The doctor blinks and quirks his lips in a wry smile, baffled yet pleased. “Um. Sure? Like right now?”

 

“Yeah, like right now,” you tell him. You stick out your hand. “Nice to meet you, Doctor.”  

 

You know he doesn’t do handshakes, it’s not his thing. Germs and whatnot, but he stares at your chipped fingernail polished hand for a moment before grasping yours. He’s warm to the touch even if his grip isn’t the strongest you’ve felt.

 

His smile is careful as hope digs into his dimples. “Nice to meet you.”

 

-

 

There’s a gentle mist outside as you leave to go home that night. Doctor Reid is not far behind you, adjusting the strap of his messenger bag as a sudden chill sinks its teeth into both of you.

 

A hung silence stills as you peer over at the man beside you, your body on autopilot to flee, but your heart wanting to root your feet into the ground.

 

“It’s scary how you don’t forget things,” you tell him honestly. You scuff your shoe on gritty concrete, the sound a clashing cymbal. “And I got really hung up on that. I’m sorry.”

 

Doctor Reid doesn’t say anything for a long time, the night air frizzing your hair. Your adrenaline tries spiking again, but you’re tired. You’re tired and you just to have clear air between the two of you. Forever.

 

His voice is gentle and just as frayed as you feel. “When I first met you, the very first time, I was the one who was awestruck and intimidated,” he chuckles. “You were this bright _purple_ entity and you smiled at me so brightly and called me gorgeous. I was…” he pauses, “...I literally stopped thinking.”

 

Heat rushes to your face, a natural blush creeping under your makeup. “I agonized over that for so long, you know,” you tell him quietly. “Like I felt like such a fool because you’re truly are inspiring and well—yeah.”

 

It’s hard to say all the things you think about him--idealized and fictitious and _real_. Too real to share with a practical stranger.  

 

(If only you realize your feelings would spiral into something more fond than admiration, perhaps you would have jumped feet first faster.)

 

There is a magnetism between the two of you as you stand in the quiet. An otherworldliness where hurricanes no longer exists and all the butterflies sleep. A change happening quicker than you can think.

 

He hums. “I think—you don’t realize that you’re scary too. You’re actually terrifying.”

 

You snap your attention to him and he gives you a kind grin. “What? No, I’m not!” you protest.  

 

Doctor Reid laughs and it’s a good and pleasing sound. It lights up his whole face as he gestures towards you. “Yes, yes you are! You are so calculated and great with people. Always fashionable and you’re so intelligent. And teachable. You just...absorb information. It’s fascinating. And everyone knows that you’re an extremely hard worker and adorable overachiever.” he says with a smirk.

 

Your throat feels thick with all the praise. “It’s not that hard...someone has to do it...”

 

Doctor Reid steps in front of you and briefly touches your upper arm. “See? You don’t even realize that to someone else watching you achieve all these great things, that you’re terrifying. You have no idea how high of a standard you’ve set. You have no idea how _remarkable_ you are. I’m truly and utterly impressed.”

 

The pretty hazels of his eyes have turned a warm brown in the poor lighting. You nod only once, your voice soft. “...thank you, Doctor.”

 

“Spencer,” he corrects. “My friends call me Spencer.”

 

Everything has a beginning and an end, but there’s not end in sight as you grin.  


 

“Thank you, Spencer. Truly.”

 

—

 

Condensation mists at the coffee shops window as you both step inside, unsure exactly how you got here with Spencer, but pleased all the same. Who knew that a lame letter would be catalyst you needed?

 

You both order your respective drinks and sit down at table towards the back, away from the chatter of college students pretending to study.

 

Both of you don’t know exactly what to say.

 

“It kinda feels like an awkward first date,” you tell him and you squash all shame that comes up from feeling stupid because you’re not stupid.

 

You’re not.

 

( _You’re so intelligent._ )

 

Doctor Reid-- _Spencer!_ \--lets out a surprised laugh, almost spilling his drink on his clothes, but only getting the table. “Dear god, I hope not. I have been on a lot of those. Enough for this lifetime, that’s for sure.”

 

You giggle as you sip a tea latte. “Mmmm. I have only been on a handful. None recently though. I don’t date much these days.”

 

“Yeah, it’s a bit...difficult to date...in this line of work.”

 

You see him swallow and slight unease rolls off his shoulders. You think of a card you signed almost two years ago, tucked into a basket Garcia left on his doorstep after--the you know, _the thing_.

 

“Well,” you start, picking up the energy. “It doesn’t have to be! This can be--this can be, I don’t know a fun first friend date. Friend dates are kinda best dates anyway.”

 

“A friend date?”

 

You nod. “Mmmhmmm. Friends don’t let you down, just dumb ex-boyfriends who break promises about not moving to the East Coast with you,” you sing.

 

Spencer’s eyes widen at. “Oh?”

 

You laugh. “Oh no, you have to go on like--at least, three friend dates to unlock my tragic backstory. Like a dating sim. It can be a heart event!”

 

He takes a deep breath through his nose, trying to suppress a laugh. “You know I’m...basically a technophobe, right?”

 

“I might not be as techy as Penelope, but I think I have enough gadgets for the both of us. I’ll get you up to speed with my farming simulation games.”

 

Spencer runs a hand through his hair, this time actually laughing. “Do I really even want to know?”

 

You smirk and lean back in your seat. “Look, farming simulation games where I can marry a cute villager is important to me. You’re just gonna have to deal with it.”

 

“Because we’re gonna be friends now?”

 

You smile wide and pat the top of his hand. “Exactly.”

 

(Oh, how the future looks merry and bright.)  



	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> reader and spencer are doing this thing called friendship

Your story is starting, a new beginning with a new friend, when your doorbell rings on a quiet Saturday morning. A butterfly swarm wreaks havoc in your stomach, anxiety and nerves old friends you thought you forgot, but find you again with a little  _ knock knock _ . You take a deep breath as you stuff your feet into house slippers. It’s too late now to cancel and fake sick. 

 

Coming towards your door, you pause and fluff your hair in the mirror, trying to look presentable and clean one last time. You look through the peephole, the moment of truth wrapped wearing purple and a long brown coat. Doctor Spencer Reid rocks on the balls of his feet and you promise yourself not to throw up. 

 

(You really want to throw up.)

 

Pressing the passcode into your alarm, the device happily beeps as you undo the chain latch and unlock both deadbolts. You pluck a bright smile to wear.

 

“Hey! Hi, hello—” oh dear, you’ve greeted him three times, might as well continue. “Hola, uh, ni-hao, hmmm, aloha, howdy, ohayou, bonjour—and yeah, welcome to my humble abode.” 

 

A small smile rests on Spencer’s mouth, laughter at the edges. “Hi.” 

 

You open the door wider and let him walk past you. Last second you snag the strap of his messenger bag unexpectedly, pulling him to a quick stop. Your nails briefly scrap the fabric of his coat before you shut the door behind you both. 

 

_ You’re doing great _ , you tell yourself.  _ A _ for effort.

 

A moment ticks before you point down at his feet, his brows furrowed in confusion. “Sorry. I have a no shoe policy.” Shuffling around him, you open a small cabinet and pull out a thing of slippers. “You can wear these if you’d like. They’re new! Or socks are fine, but no shoes please. Too much grime and stuff.” 

 

Doctor Reid nods, mildly curious but nevertheless, sits down on your bench and pulls off his shoes. You notice his mismatched socks, deep purple and ruby red. You giggle and find them to be a good omen.

 

Spencer shoots you a brief look. “Yes, yes. They’re not matching, but I like them.” 

 

Tension rolls out of you as you quickly redo your door and reset the alarm. “No, it’s cute. I hardly wear matching socks myself.” 

 

“Oh?” 

 

“Mainly because I’m very lazy to match them up together again though.” 

 

“Well,” you hear him say, “I do mine for a bit of luck.”

 

You laugh again and gesture towards the kitchen. 

 

“I guess today’s gonna be your lucky day.”  

 

(Or maybe it’s yours since you’re so excited to have company with someone so cute.)

 

-

  
  


“You’re doing the recipe completely out of order.”

 

“Not  _ completely _ out of order,” you say as you whisk the dry ingredients together. “Just...slightly out of order.” 

 

You don’t bother looking up at Spencer, but you can feel his frustration roll off him like hot waves filling every inch of your kitchen. You do your best not to snicker at his expense as he reads to you the banana bread recipe once again that he’s already memorized perfectly. 

 

“If you just set up everything before you started kind of mixing, this would have been a lot easier,” he chides, mashing ripe bananas into a bowl. 

 

“Says the man with two perfectly good hands!” You shoot him a look, huffing incredulously.

 

“That I am using,” he points out. 

 

If would have known you that a year ago that you’d have Dr. Spencer Reid in your kitchen making banana bread, you would have laughed so hard you would’ve cried. But here you are doing exactly that with you both talking. There is bickering and bantering. And your kitchen is filled with such delicious laughter that you might weep.

 

If only you got the courage to be his friend ages ago, just think how many more baking days the two of you could have shared. If only, if only.   

 

“What are you anyway? Some kind of scientist or something?” you say, cracking the eggs in a small bowl.

 

Spencer’s face falls completely flat, but his tone only bubbles into annoyance as you flick flour his way. “Well, yes! I’m a doctor! And a bit of a scientist, I guess!” His hands fly up in the air, accidently knocking into a pot that hangs above your small center island. 

 

You burst out laughing. “Chillax, my dude! Please don’t go breaking my kitchen,” you say between deep laughs. “I want my security deposit back.” 

 

Spencer taps the counter with displeasure. “Then  _ please _ just follow the recipe. This is like watching a bad chemistry experiment. Baking is a science,” he emphasizes. 

 

You click your tongue. “Nerd.”

 

“Am not.”

 

“Um, are too,” you reply as you wipe a random spill. “Besides, baking is about love and love is more than some chemicals in your brain. It’s magic and all that stuff. And no facts you got tucked up in that noggin of yours is going to tell me otherwise.” 

 

Reid takes a deep breath and chuckles quietly. “Are you always this...sassy?” 

 

You flash him a quick grin. “Always.”  

 

You grab the butter from the freezer and slice ¾ a cup to soften in the microwave as the kitchen quietens to the happy hum of radioactive waves. You look over up again, noticing Reid holding his chin in his hand, staring at you. 

 

It’s a bit intense. The way he’s looking at all of you in your movements. His eyes pierce through you, catch your breath. It’s like you’re pinned under a microscope, chest ripped open with your soul exposed. 

 

“Hey, don’t know if you know this, dear Doctor,” you try to joke, “but this is a no profiling zone.” 

 

Spencer blinks once and denies it, his voice going an octave higher. “I wasn’t—I wasn’t profiling, I was thinking. Vast difference.”

 

You scoff, playfully rolling your eyes. “Oh no, believe me. I heard you thinking. I think everyone in the greater D.C. area heard you thinking, but,” you pause, grabbing both the white and brown sugar from across the island. “But I know exactly what you were doing and I don’t need you to profile me in my own home.”  

 

Spencer remains quiet, a silly grin digging into his cheeks at your indignation. You huff once more and accidentally put the mixer on high in the dry ingredients bowl. Your surprised yelp is drown out by the sound of the beaters hitting the blow and Spencer’s laughter. 

 

Flour, thankfully, is only slightly everywhere. 

 

Your face runs hot as you turn it off.

 

“You're so stupid…” you mumble. “Shouldn't have invited you over.”

 

He takes a big gulp of air, but happiness still paints his face with a smidge of curiosity. “Why did you invite me over? Not that I mind helping you bake, but…” he shrugs.

 

You...merr. As you call it, not a grr or a groan, but your distress sound of merr that conveys all negative and embarrassing things in one small and concise phrase.

 

Spencer senses your discomfort and everything shifts to the unspoken words that the two of you haven't dared exchanged. He patiently waits as he leans against a counter and sips a glass of water. The only sound in the kitchen is the slight scraping of metal on metal as you whisk the dry ingredients again.

 

“Because I am sick of bad thought spirals,” you confess. “I'm sick of doubting myself and not being a good person and just--it’s dumb. I'm dumb. The whole time so like...fuck thought spirals where I don't think I'm good enough to be your friend.” You pause, you heart thumping in your chest and you—

 

— promised yourself that when you doubt yourself, that you’ll just dive head first, be impulsive because when you stop thinking, just for one moment, things go better than you’d ever assume. Your brain is your own worst enemy. So, you keep that racing heart and you clutch it tight. You feel your stomach twist and you don’t care anymore because you are taking a stand and this is your day and you

 

—are in control. 

 

(Even if your brain tells you otherwise, if it tries to break you down again, make you stop talking, make you push all your fears into that little black box that sits at the bottom of your spine and let history repeat again and again.) 

 

Butterfly wings cause hurricanes and you’re breaking down barriers with the wind at your back, wings jutting through your shoulders to carry yourself higher. No safety, just free falling into the moment, into this next commitment because you can’t turn back time. 

 

“So, yeah. Fuck that nonsense. I’m gonna be your friend and I’m gonna friend you so hard and you’re just gonna have to deal with it.” 

 

(You remember the triangle your therapist drew for you one day, about how bad thoughts consume you and you just sat there thinking you needed to break it. That you were stronger than arbitrary shapes that attempted to define you.

 

That you were good enough.)

 

You force yourself to look Spencer in the eye, well aware his brain is going into overdrive at what you said. How could it not? There was so much to unpack. Low self-esteem, self-hatred, wobbly self-worth.

 

But you will not falter. He will not forget your promise and you will not let yourself break it.

 

But he does the doctor thing and asks. “Are there good thought spirals? Is this a good thought spiral?”

 

He smiles small yet sincere and joy radiates from the center of your stomach, tender blooms unfurling in your bloodstream as relief sings throughout you. Your nose burns with intense emotion, your eyes wanting to shed tears, but you don’t want to be a crybaby in front of him.

 

You turn and wipe at your eye, ready to cream the butter and sugar together. “No, this is a good action spiral. Kicking down doors kind of thing.”

 

“Sounds intense.”

 

“I’m kind of an intense person,” you quip. 

 

“I figured. I kinda profiled that about you,” he teases. 

 

You throw a dishrag at him, the worries you had disappearing as you hear his laughter mix with yours. Being impulsive has proven once again to be your aid.  

 

He comes to stand beside you, a good distance between the two of you but there is a connection and a comfort there now. You two are no longer separated by your center island, but are now standing on the same side of the room. He waits patiently as you cream the sugar and butter. 

 

“Hey,” he starts, “by the way, don’t think that I’m not gonna—what was it?— friend you hard too,” he softly confesses. 

 

You beam so wide the apples of your cheeks scrunch your eyes. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

 

You quietly finish mixing the rest of the ingredients as Spencer beings washing a few assorted utensils. Soft music plays from your phone, your hums sometimes in time with a tune. Butterfly wings brush against your heart as you both work throws this friendly new beginning.

 

You fill both pans halfway with batter and pop them in the oven. Setting the timer, you glance over at your cozy living room area.

 

If this was a different kind of social call, you’d suggest watching something on Netflix. Throw in a perfect excuse to cuddle close and test boundaries to see how much you could get away with. But you refuse your heart the luxury of daydreaming something more passionate and most likely to be a plot from a nameless romance blurring in your memories. 

 

Instead, you focus on reality, on being a better person than you were yesterday. You promised yourself you’d be more open—make this friendship happen because deep in your bones, you have this feeling that having Spencer Reid in your life will be worth it. 

 

You take a deep breath and catch his attention. A nervous smile paints your face as you gesture towards the other side of your apartment. “C’mon. I wanna show you something.” 

 

Spencer tilts his head with curiosity, but his steps pad quietly on your floor as you creak the second bedroom’s door.

 

“Excuse the mess,” you say, flicking on the bright overhead light. 

 

Fresh paint perfumes the room. Canvases line the wall, stacked neatly by a lone bookshelf jam packed with art books and an old, beloved chair. A plastic tarp rests in the center, an easel propped up with a wet piece.

 

You hear Spencer gasp, his attention fixed intensity on the portrait you’re still painting. Your heart flutters as you wait for him to speak. 

 

(You think it funny, that for someone so filled with words, art makes him speechless.)  

 

“Wow, —” he says, your name soft in his mouth. “I didn’t—didn’t know you could paint!” He rushes, his words starting to fumble. “It’s—she’s so  _ beautiful. _ Who is that?”    

 

Love blossoms throughout you as you take a step forward and trace the rough edges of the canvas with your fingers. Luminous dark skin and a tender smile fill your vision, the ghost of laughter ringing in your ears. Her eyes twinkle at a joke you told her, this painting a representation of a candid photo you took earlier in the year.  

 

“My soulmate,” you explain with affection. “A girl named Rosa, who I love absolutely without conditions.”

 

Spencer doesn’t say anything for a few moments, as if choosing his words carefully. He stands near your, his questions wrapping around you almost like a physical thing. “...what’s that like? For you to sound so sure?”  

 

You think of late night conversations and exchanged e-mails, the calm that follows that if you need her, she’ll be there. In the trust of free falling without a parachute that she would defy gravity for a single moment to ensure your safety—that you would do the same. It’s— 

 

“--never to be obligated to love someone, that I love her simply because she exists and there is peace in that. She is—She is my other half: my thoughts easy for her to untangle, the two of us on a shared frequency I’ve never had with someone else. We have no expectations of each other, just the hope to be lifelong companions and beloved friends.”       

 

“Just hope?”

 

His unspoken question:  _ is that truly enough? _ There is doubt in pause, his avenue unexplored by him and many others. To just love a friend as an extension of yourself and not want more. 

 

You glance up at him and smile. “Of course. Just hope. Can’t make Rosa stay in my life nor can she do the same to me. We don’t cling to each other, Doctor. We just choose to exist with each other,” you say. “Rosa is—Rosa is not someone who I love romantically—that...that has requirements.”  

 

Spencer reaches out and touches the edge of the painting. “Like what?” 

 

“Mmmm. Well, I have to be sexually attracted to that person, for one. And that person needs to pay attention to me and spend time with me. That person has to have similar values as me, same wants to build a life together with me. This person just won’t be my soulmate and I’m not looking to fall in love with a soulmate,” you add with a small laugh. “Rosa is my carbon copy and I’m looking for someone to compliment me, make me a better person, challenge me—well, you get the picture, I think.”

 

(You thought you found that person already, already had two greatest loves of your life, but that—that, of course, never happened.)    

 

The room falls quiet and you swallow, realizing you just—emotional dumped all over the good doctor and horror washes over you. You turn to him, your eyes wide and panicked, your hand flying to your mouth. 

 

“Oh my god, I am so sorry, that was like—extremely personal and a lot to handle and—” 

 

Spencer blinks before grinning, his hands tucked into his pockets. “No, it was...nice. You really love her and...and I don’t know, that sounds nice, to love someone without conditions.”

 

His eyes gaze away, as if he’s looking for something in the distance and your heart feels heavy in your chest. There is a bittersweet softness there and you wonder if his mind drifts away to someone else. 

 

“Can I—” you try to say. “Was it—?” 

 

—like how I love? you want to ask, but you don’t. The question too personal on your lips, but you know he’s heard it anyway. 

 

Hazel eyes flicker to yours, a haunting smile hanging to his lips. “Maybe a bit of both, by your definition.” 

 

“That’s still beautiful.” 

 

“Is it?”

 

“I think so,” you say, guiding him back to the kitchen. “Love is like beauty; in the heart of the beholder.”

 

“You know it doesn't go that way,” Spencer’s voice says behind you.  

 

You grin. “True, but do you want your heart to be constricted by other people or do you want to decide for yourself?”

 

It is quiet for a moment, the sounds of the oven the only thing making noise. 

 

“What if I never move on? What if I never  _ want _ to move on?”

 

You take a deep breath, choosing your words with care. “I think...I think if you feel that your love with Maeve is able to sustain you for the rest of your life, that's awesome. Breathtaking even. To be that devoted to someone even through…” you swallow, bracing yourself to mention the elephant in the room, “death. But,” you pause, “life continues, Spencer. It just depends on how you want to interact with it. I know for me, I need that kind of love in my life and I have a big enough heart to fall in love again. Yours seems to be a bit different.”

 

Spencer’s face pulls into a tight smile. “I always seen to be a bit different.” 

 

“Different is good though. It’s human to be unique, or rather, it’s American to be an individual. You are only a byproduct of your nation,” you say, cheeriness in your voice. “And as for love, whatever makes you happy, Spence—-er,” you quickly add, feeling your eyes going wide at almost calling him his nickname. “Only you get to decided that, Spencer,” you emphasize the  _ er _ . 

 

The corners of his mouth relax and his smile becomes more genuine. “Thank you, ——,” he says, your name only adding to the moment of friendship. “I appreciate it.” 

 

“Anytime, Doctor. I’m always here.”  

 

And if there is one moment you can keep from today, it will be this one. Where sunshine streams through the window and outlines Spencer in a glorious halo. He smiles once more, wonderful and bright, like starlight and good things and trust for new beginnings.

 

“I know.”

 

-

 

You get lost in D.C. on weekends when work isn’t busy. There are sights to see, history under cobblestoned streets and your breath finds reason to stop ceasing. It’s beautiful, to be in your nation’s capital, but sad to discover all on your own. 

 

When not exploring, you call Rosa, missing her company more than anyone from back home. 

 

Sometimes you leave her long and detailed voicemails retelling your day. You might leave two or three because you have so much to say. Yet sometimes, there are no voicemails to leave, not when she picks up on the very first ring.

 

Her voice is soft and sweet, mousey and kind. “Hello, bestie?” 

 

She always answers like it’s a question, like she can’t believe that you’re actually calling. 

 

(You call on a schedule. You’re predictable this way and yet, after all these years, she still finds magic in your friendship, like you’re not quite all there.) 

 

You squeal at her voice. “Rosa! I misses you!” 

 

Her laugh bells gloriously. “I misses you too. How are you? Did you eat?” 

 

“Yes, mom. I ate. I’m good. Just chilling at home. It’s—lonely, truth be told.” 

 

“Mmmm,” she hums. “You’re always a bit lonely it seems. But you’re making friends! Like with Dr. Reid and Penelope! And Derek!” 

 

“Yeah, I am... I guess, just,” you say, your voice quieter as your trace your feelings on your thigh. “Lonely. I think I’m always a little lonely.”

 

“That’s because your heart is too big for your chest.”

 

“Are you saying I’m the opposite of the Grinch?” you joke. 

 

“Of course! That’s why I love you.” 

 

She says it so effortlessly, like listing a fact. Which it is. Rosa wouldn’t be your soulmate if she didn’t love you You can’t help but smile fondly at the way she boldly declares it. 

 

“I love you too. When will you become a real doctor and become my sugar mama?”

 

“Maybe after I pay off my student loans,” she chuckles. She pauses and you can sense her question. “Have you...have you thought about dating again?” 

 

You suck in a breath. “Dating is hard...I wouldn’t even know where to start...”

 

“Oh, where’s my lion girl?” she chides. “You’re always so brave and yet you’re gonna run away again. Last time you ran away, you weren’t able to make a friend for two years, right?”

 

Rosa might wax lyrical poetry to you often, but apparently tonight’s not the night for her endless praises.

 

(She tells you what you need to hear despite that it’s not always wanted.)  

 

“....okay, rude. And I don’t know! Dating means being vulnerable and how am I supposed to open myself up to a complete stranger again. Every boy I’ve ever dated has been a friend.”

 

She clicks her tongue, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Why don’t you date a boy at work then? Aren’t you friends with them?”

 

“Rosa, you’re like the smartest person I know, but that is the stupidest thing you’ve ever said. Date a boy at work, she says. Like there are boys for me to date at work.”

 

“Well, I think there is  _ one  _ man you could date—-”

 

Your heart speeds up and you know exactly where this is going to go. It’s filed under “do not think about” for a reason.

 

“Oh, what’s that, Rosa?” you say. “Your patient is calling you? I’m going through a tunnel? Oh no! I can’t hear you--bleh!” 

 

You hang up and toss your phone across the couch. Your heart is still racing as her text message comes through.

 

_ Think about it, dear. You know you want to _ .

 

“Ha, how wrong you are, my dear,” you say as you type back your reply.

 

(But not really. Rosa is hardly ever wrong about you.)  

 

-

 

“Thanks for coming with me tonight, Penelope.” 

 

The moon hangs fat in the sky as you pull out of the parking lot. Your cheeks are still cold, but your belly is full from delicious hot pot. You think of home and your friends who would go out late to eat shabu shabu. You’re glad you gotta do it again here.

 

Penelope giggles and rubs her hands together to create some heat, waiting for the car’s heater to kick in. A part of you wishes that you opted for the model with heated seats, but Penelope doesn’t seem to mind, her mittens jiggling with little bells.

 

“No,  _ thank you _ , Miss Speed Racer! Tonight has been mind blowing. From an all-woman car meet to hot pot? I don’t think I’ve had hot pot? It's so delicious! Cooking all the meat, or my case tofu, and veggies. Like soup fondue!”

 

You grin and pull out of the parking lot, enjoying the way streetlights filter through the windshield. Like a little meteor shower as you go by each one just for you.  _ Make a wish and see if it comes true _ , you loftily think. 

 

“Haha. It is a lot like soup fondue! But it's just a fun thing to do and the girls were so lovely. I'm glad there is a woman car community in D.C.!”

 

“And what was that thing you were talking about the girl with pink in her hair? Something like  _ tashi? _ ” Penelope asks. 

 

“ _Itasha,_ ” you state. “It means ‘painful car’ as in painful to look at or to your wallet. It's wrapping your car with vinyl mostly these days with anime or video game characters. Dudes are more into it than ladies, but it’s really cool driving around in a customizable car, I think! I would want more like Japanese pop-culture art on my car such as acid bears or something more than a hot anime girl, ya know?”

 

It’s part of the reason you bought a Japanese sports car.  _ Itasha _ . Despite that it can look silly, a part of you would love to have a Kingdom Hearts dedicated wrap or something bright like Fruits Basket. 

 

Penelope laughs and the sound warms your soul. It’s sweet, her ability to be completely expressive. “You really are a weeb, aren’t you?” 

 

“Oh yeah. I am, but it’s just for fun. I like the pretty colors and cool fantastical stories and stuff. The way they just—blindly do the impossible and create worlds that are based on the impossible alone. That’s amazing and so, so hopeful…is that wrong?” 

 

“No, no. It’s just—I didn’t realize you really liked Japanese pop culture so much or that you were so knowledgeable about it.” 

 

“One of my capstone projects in college was about the American  _ otaku _ community,” you say with a laugh. If only that version of you could see where you are now. Then you had wanted to be a diplomat and now you work for the FBI. Go figure.  “It was for a class about fandom. Which, I must add, was a heckin’ blast.. So yeah, I might know a thing or two when it comes to trends and stuff,” you conclude with a satisfied smirk.  

 

“That is so, so, so fascinating.” 

 

You snort. “Don’t get me started. Please.” 

 

“Oh, I think I want to get you a little revved up!” 

 

You shake your head, giggling slightly as you gun it on the highway.

 

“Okay. Here’s a little fun fact for you: there is this growing trend called  _ itabagu _ which means ‘painful bag’. Like the same thing with the painful car, right? It's more popular with the lady people so they can show off pins and keychains of their favorite characters. When I went to an anime convention last year, there were all these backpacks for sell that had a clear cut out, so you could decorate it however you wanted. It just so neat to see how everyone stylized their fandom love. So much boy love. Everywhere.” 

 

“Why do you have this wealth of knowledge and have not been using it for  _ evil _ ?” she stresses, glee drenched in her voice as you her see her googling away. Her mouth pops open as she sees cute bags and happy faces.  

 

You laugh. “Like you said, I’m a weeb. Just a wonderfully dressed one! I keep my super geeky side a secret until the waters are safe. So much indie makeup is like… fan related too, you know. Shiro Cosmetics is dope for that. I really want a Backstreet Boys lip gloss.” 

 

Penelope wheezes, clutching at her heart. “There is Backstreet Boys lip gloss and this is the first I’ve heard of it? And I call myself a goddess of the internet….” 

 

“I think! I think that they still make it. I do know for a fact that at one time the creator made Nicholas Cage theme lipgloss and you could get one of Nic Cage dressed as a flapper.” 

 

Your friend is thoughtful for a moment as she relaxes against the door. You can feel her gaze focused on you as you drive her home. “I’m really glad we became friends.” 

 

You snort again, surprised. “Thanks?”

 

“No, seriously! I mean it, you silly goose. Ever since you walked into my office two years ago, you have just been such a delightful person and I’m glad we really are good friends.” 

 

You smile softly to yourself, a blush creeping up your cheeks. “Well, um, thank you,” you mutter. You click your tongue. “You know I’m terrible with praise…” 

 

“Now that I know!” Penelope chuckles, “but I wouldn’t have it any other way. So, now I really want to go to a nerd convention with you! We can dress up together! Wouldn't that be fun?”

 

You smirk to yourself and cackle. “...woman, have you not found my cosplay Instagram?”

 

You almost swerve into oncoming traffic as Penelope grabs onto your arm while driving.

“YOU HAVE A COSPLAY INSTAGRAM?”

 

(And yes, you do. Though it might not always be safe for work.  _ Wink. _ )

 

-

 

Friendship slowly sinks into your skin as words become easier with Spencer. Gone are the days you couldn’t talk to him. No, you can talk to him just fine now. Just about anything that floats through your mind.

 

“And, yeah. It’s just crazy to think that bananas have caused so much strife in Central America at the turn of the 1900s that companies like Chiquita—the one with the lady on the label, right?—known apparently as the United Fruit Company—oh my god, Spencer,” you pause, halting your steps and staring at him with wide eyes. “What if there was a UN of Fruits?” you whisper. “Little fruit diplomats .discussing international fruit policy!” 

 

Without missing a beat, Spencer nods thoughtfully. “Well, the International Fund for Agricultural Development (IFAD) is an international financial institution and UN specialised agency dedicated to eradicating poverty in rural areas of developing countries. Or there is The Committee on Agriculture (COAG) is one of FAO’s—Food and Agriculture Organization of the United Nations—Governing Bodies providing overall policy and regulatory guidance on issues relating to agriculture, livestock, food safety, nutrition, rural development and natural resource management.” 

 

You blink and tilt your head to the side. “I meant more like...fruits dressed up as politicians talking in funny accents,” you explain. He frowns slightly, almost as if he was the one who said something wrong. “But thank you for that new fun fact for my mental folder of other fun facts!” you add, bumping into his shoulder playfully.

 

It’s a reflex. The touchyness. You know deep in all your rationality that you should not pat-pat, or playfully bump, or touch your co-worker. But then you have your brain stem doing complete overrides that make you do it anyway. Be friendly, that animal brain says—show people affections because you’re good at that. Do onto others what you’d like them to do to you. Isn’t that golden rule?  

 

So, far—no one has mentioned any discomfort at your friendly displays. They accept your endless high fives, waves, thumbs ups, and quick hugs. Even Hotch doesn’t scowl if you wave at him when you see him or smile big or get too close. And there has definitely been a friendly clasp of your shoulder when you’ve done something right. 

 

(It took everything inside of you not to squeal with delight, but Hotch laughed anyway. Actually laughed, his stoic mask cracking. A part of you was afraid you brought upon an apocalypse.)

 

But Reid is different. He doesn’t shake hands with strangers and only hugs people when he’s extremely close to them. Despite the ease in conversation between the two of you, you don’t think for a moment that you’re in his most inner circles. 

 

It’s like how in Japanese where everything is dependent of the relationship between the speaker and the other. How close they are physically, how intertwined their lives are together. Will you say  _ kore _ if they’re right here, use their first name, and drop all formalities with them? Or do you are say they  _ are _ , over there in distance, so far from you in friendship where  _ last name-san _ is all you get with awkward smiles and stereotypical politeness.

 

You feel like you’re in the middle, you feel like you’re stuck in  _ sore _ —just only close enough to the person speaking to be listening, but not quite close enough to breathe correctly and relish in the proximity where language falls away. That there are no distance markers forced between the two of you and you happily be right  _ here  _ instead of over  _ there _ .

 

(Oh, if Penelope thought you were a weeb before hoo boy, if only she knew your thinking process.)

 

But troublesome doubts about relationship language evaporate when Reid shakes his head and opens the door for you as you walk into the office. “That’s me. Your fun fact guy.” 

 

(He’s getting better at making little jokes, you notice. Or maybe he’s getting more comfortable making little jokes. Or maybe you’re rubbing off on him because that is something that you would most definitely say or—)  

 

“Yes! And—and—oh yeah, I almost forgot,” you say as you gain your bearings again. “It’s crazy that unlike other cash crops like cotton, coffee, sugar, tobacco, or even cocoa, bananas aren’t processed at all really! They don’t spur for the development of other industries like textiles or more processed procedures. You just buy bananas from the store exactly how they were picked. The simple banana in all its yellow peeled goodness has caused so much trouble over being exactly how it is!”    

 

Derek picks his head up from his desk and stares at you, shamelessly eavesdropping “Wait, what?” 

 

You turn to him, eyes bright and laughter in your voice. “It’s bananas there are Banana Wars, Morgan. Bananas!”

 

Derek takes in a deep breath and laughs, going back to his paperwork. “I don’t even want to know.” 

 

His posture says otherwise, but you both know that if you get started on a random topic again then you’ll just continue down that road and get completely distracted. 

 

Spencer chuckles quietly before walking over to his desk. You do the same, your mind drifting back to political fruits and you can’t stop smiling.

 

Reid clears his throat, getting your attention. “Have you ever heard about the Cake War in Mexico?” 

 

Your eyes go wide as you let out a bubbly laugh. “No! Tell me!”

 

His relief is palpable, as if he thought you would say “no” about Cake Wars in Mexico, which couldn’t be farther from the truth. 

 

“Okay, so it’s actually called the Pastry War and it began in 1832 when a French pastry chef known as Monsieur Remontel claimed that Mexican officers looted his shop outside Mexico City. Remontel and others continued complaining until Prime Minister Louis-Mathieu Molè demanded that Mexico pay 600,000 pesos or about 3 million Francs. Which, considered at the time, was an outrageous amount since the daily Mexican person only made approximately one peso a day. When president Anastasio Bustamante did not make the payment, the King of France ordered his Rear Admiral Charles Baudin to declare a blockade on all Mexican ports. And that is only a tiny bit on cakes caused incredible strife in Mexico.”  

 

“Oh, you can’t end there, Spencer!”

 

“Okay, okay. After the City of Veracruz was captured by France and Mexico declared an all-out war, people started smuggling goods into Mexico—”

 

“ _ Baked _ goods, I hope.” You’re not a very good punner, but you try your best. 

 

Spencer’s eyes narrow at your jest. “Ha ha, well, more like  _ flour _ and one smuggling party had to leave about a hundred barrels of flour on the beach— which later will be known as Flour Bluff. And despite the fact that Mexico and France eventually came to a peace agreement where Mexico had to pay the 600,000 pesos, they never do and since France falls in 1870 and yeah. The Pastry War ended up affecting so many lives and really nothing came of it. Now, how is that for bananas?” 

 

You open your mouth to reply, but Derek beats you to the punch. “The only thing bananas around here is about why the both of you—Pretty Boy I can understand, but you Sunny Girl, I’m disappointed—happen to know about meaningless wars.” 

 

You stick your tongue out at Derek. “You’re just jealous that we’d beat you in game of Trivia Pursuit.” 

 

Derek smiles and gets up from his desk. “Okay, you got me there. I’m gonna get more coffee and you both can continue.” 

 

You roll your eyes and start to settle into your desk. Spencer’s silence alarms you and risk taking a glance at him. 

 

“You okay?” 

 

He hums. “I was just thinking...you don’t really get annoyed when I start rambling about things.” 

 

“Well, duh. I love to learn, Doctor. And you teach me new things all the time. Why would I be annoyed by that?” 

 

“I don’t know, just a lot of people are and you’re…not. That’s, as you would say, rad.” 

 

You huff with a small laugh. “I’m glad I’m rubbing off on you a little bit then! But yeah, I mean, sure you can ramble but so do I. I think it’s  _ rad _ you don’t stop me when I start talking about a subject that you already know about. It's nice for me to have the chance to explain despite that you already know said thing. You acknowledge that I’m dying to tell someone, anyone who’ll listen.” 

 

“I know that feeling,” he adds with mirth. “And I don’t mind, you have a fun way of telling me about things. I like that about you. Your enthusiasm is refreshing.”

 

You swallow, your heart racing up without your permission. “Thanks!” you squeak, your smile weird and squirmy. 

 

Your gaze drops down to files on your desk and you trace one with your finger, unsure what to say next, but you can’t deny how feeling blossoms in your chest. How something so offhanded and minor could make you feel— 

 

( _ You’re so intelligent. You’re so fashionable. You’re adorable. You’re— _ )

 

Nope.  This road is not worth travelling.  

 

-

 

You set up a Tinder and swipe right a few times.

 

You delete the app before you can go on a single date.

 

(Sometimes guys just give you that serial killer vibe and honestly, no thanks.)

 

-

 

You’re finding your place in the BAU. Making a name for yourself with management that supports you. Penelope watches over you and guides you, but Hotch is the one who calls the shots. You find yourself at his desk one morning with a coffee in your hand. 

 

He looks up from his paperwork briefly and welcomes you to sit. 

 

“Is everything okay?”

 

Hotch’s voice is always quiet. You strain to listen and root yourself in the conversation. His speaking voice is different than his business voice when he’s barking orders at people. In the four walls of his office, he’s at peace and it carries in his cadence. 

 

You nod and place the coffee on his desk, an offering for so much more than you’re about to say. “I just wanted to say thank you for hiring me. Today’s my five-month anniversary with the BAU and well, just thank you.” 

 

He puts down his pen and looks at you. Sometimes you feel like he can see into you, see all the things you’re hiding, that you’ve covered up deep in your soul. His lips then curl in small yet meaningful smile as he grabs the cup and pulls it towards him. A small blessing seemingly washes over you. 

 

“You’ve been a great asset to the department, I think. Garcia was right about you.” 

 

You suppress a giggle, wanting to remain professional, but gently smile. “Don’t tell her that. She’d be so over the moon.”

 

He huffs good naturedly into his cup. “Now, that I know,” he says. “But I truly mean it. I’m glad you’re part of the team. Our line of work isn’t easy and you’re bright, caring, cheery, and efficient. We couldn’t have asked for a better addition.” 

 

“Thank you, sir.” 

 

“And now that you’ve gotten over whatever complex you have towards Reid, the team functions well. The storming session is over so to speak.” 

 

You don’t comment on that, but you grin bashfully. “Um, well. It was immature and silly of me.” You tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. 

 

“I think it was human. Everyone reacts to him differently, but yours came from a place of admiration and that to me seems more positive than negative.”  

 

“The world is too tiring to always be negative, but either way, I’m glad I’m part of this amazing team.” 

 

Hotch nods and takes another sip of coffee again. “Congrats on five months. Hopefully, we can make it to at least five years.”

 

Determination ignites through you. “Most definitely, sir.”  

 

-

 

You are lost in a world of beauty. White flowers cover hillsides and pleasing music echoes for all to hear. There is a handsome man with dark hair and blue eyes wearing an adoring smile to a lovely woman. The relief is palatable between, the months apart straining their very souls. 

 

Someone taps on your shoulder and you jump, an earbud falling out of your ear. Your phone clatters to the desk as you whip your head around to glare at intruder. 

 

Spencer stands sheepishly behind you, rubbing the back of his neck. His hair is getting long again, touching the top of his collar. “Ah, sorry. Just wanted to know what you’re reading. You’ve been kinda quiet these days.” 

 

You’ve been on a book binge and everyone knows it. You’ve been staying up late, eyes glued to your phone as you suck down another book at any moment’s notice. Or fanfic. Just something written that makes your heart squeeze so tight you feel like you’ll die from happiness.

 

(You might have a problem.

 

But you’re not going to call it that.)

 

Spencer is curious, staring at you with pretty hazel eyes, wanting to know what you’re reading on your devil device. He’s so tall in this moment, towering over you easily. It reminds you of the first day you met him, with excitement and glee at your edges.

 

“It’s not a classic,” you say. “Or even anything scientific.” 

 

He shrugs. “It has to be good if you’re so into it. You’re reading a trilogy, right?”

 

Profilers. Always so perceptive. You take a deep breath and swallow. “Do you promise not to judge me?” 

 

“Why would I judge you?”

 

“I don’t know. I like weird things?”

 

“I already know that. You have two full bookshelves devoted to manga in your bedroom.”

 

You cross your arms and roll your eyes, trying not to grin.  “That’s not weird.” 

 

You remember his outrage last time he was over. He was helping editing your dissertation, so you could submit it to academic journals. While you were working on the latest draft, curiosity got the best of him and he asked if he could check out the bookcases in your bedroom. His outspoken horror at your intense graphic novel collection was comical that you found yourself being distracted for the rest of the afternoon by sharing your favorites with him.

 

(He’s far more fond of your shoujo than anything else—much like his soap operas.)   

 

“Maybe disappointing is the right word then,” he teases, smug as he leans slightly closer towards you.

 

There is a pull in this moment, calling you to stand up and brush the hair out of his eyes. You wonder if his hair is soft, what his skin under your fingertips would feel like. You allow yourself this brief guilty pleasure. 

 

“You’re only upset that I don’t have classics for you. Besides, classics are weird. They’re what the youth call boring.”

 

Spencer doesn’t take the bait at your taunt. He rises up his on his tiptoes and decides to be cocky instead. “Your current favorite musical is about a Russian classic.” 

 

“So?  _ War and Peace _ is a lot more digestible when there’s singing. You should give it a listen like I suggested.  _ The Great Comet of 1812 _ is amazing. Trust.” 

 

“My mother would skin me alive,” he says with a laugh. “And look, I’m willing to ignore the finer pieces of literature to know what you’re reading. So, please tell me? I want something new to read.” The slight begging in his voice makes you smile to yourself. 

 

“Okay. Um. I’ve been reading retellings of Hades and Persephone. I really like them. They’re cute, but there’s not many of them. Most of them are indie books or from small presses.” 

 

“Oh, really? And you mean the Rape of Persephone, right?” 

 

“Spencer, you and I both know that you know that it means ‘to abduct’ and not to actually rape.  Don’t start.”

 

You puts his hands up in surrender. “You got me.”

 

(His eyes twinkle and there is a fondness in this exchange, if only you knew so long ago that this person would mean so much to you.)

 

“Anyway, just be glad I’m slowly getting over my alien hero romance stories. Because, hoo boy. Those would be...” you giggle mischievously. “Yeah, anyway. Hades and Persephone. This one I’m re-reading is the  _ Receiver of Many _ . Super solid, really pretty. Maybe one too many sex scenes that kinda distract you from the main story, but it’s good. The second book,  _ Destroyer of Light _ , now we’re talkin’. We definitely see Persephone come into her own and yeah. The makings of the Iron Queen are happening! It’s a good series, but it’s definitely borderline erocita.”

 

“Uh.” He makes a face, clearly uncomfortable. 

 

You try your best not to laugh. “But this doesn’t sound like your cup of tea.”

 

“I don’t think it is. Sorry.” 

 

You pause for a moment, tapping your finger against your chin. An idea strikes you then, bright and fresh, like the story still seared in your mind from the other night. “I do have something I think you’d like.”

 

“What is it?”

 

You reach for your phone and exit the current book you’re reading, deciding to dive into your Kindle Library. It’s still there at 100% completion, the book that stole your heart and made you start reading like a madwoman again. You swipe all the way left, finding an image of the book’s cover. You flip your phone around and show him.

 

“ _ Deathless _ ?”

 

You girn. “Yes,  _ Deathless _ . It’s about Koschei—the Tsar of Life.” 

 

Spencer studies the cover, his fingertips brushing against yours as he takes the phone. “...who hid his soul inside a needle, hidden in an egg, within a duck, within a hare, which is in a chest, buried under an oak tree on the island of Buyan.” 

 

“Yes. The very same. But it follows his young bride Marya Morevna and it is...” you say wistfully, your heart feeling full as you remember each stunning line. “It is like dreaming a glorious dream, Spencer, drenched in tradition and unapologetic with its descriptions. It’s grotesque as it is beautiful, with gnarled hands and fiery blazes.” 

 

He glances at you, a goofy smile on his face. “You love it that much?” 

 

“More than I’ve loved anything else lately,” you dreamily sigh. “Finding a good book is much like falling in love again.” He hands back your phone. “You should read it. And take your time.  Read slow, soak up every word” 

 

“You want  _ me _ , of all people, to read slower?”

 

“I want you, of all people, to feel like you’re in a good dream. To sit there in a world someone created and absorb every moment. Anyone can read fast, Spence, but it takes discipline to read carefully. Don’t tell me that big brain of yours can’t create an intricate world? 

 

Spencer hums. “My imagination is...not as detailed as my memory,” he confesses. “It’s more like impressions compared to the visceral things I recall.” 

 

You lean back in your chair, your fingers tapping on your phone. “That’s okay, as long as you enjoy it. Make them good impressions. See something beautiful, however you define it.” 

 

“Okay, I love to read, but even that sounds too romantic.” 

 

“Be romantic, Spencer,” you say, tapping his shoe with yours.  “Life is more fun this way. Gooey and cute.” 

 

He wrinkles his nose, humor etched in his expression. “I’ll think about it.” 

 

-

 

Later that night as you’re brewing a cup of tea, your phone buzzes with a new text message.

 

_ You are right. Being romantic is a little fun. _

 

**Did you like it?**

 

_ I’m going to send a copy to my mother.  _

 

**So, you loved it :D**

 

_ Yes. The rhythmic repetition, how food is revered as if gold, the way the idea that physical act of living is so painful while death more muted. The mixing of magic and not. It really was beautiful.  Thank you for the recommendation. _

 

**I’m known to have a few good ones now and then.**

 

_ Now, if only you’d actual give War and Peace a try you’d see that you would like it just as much. _

 

**Never! TOO MUCH COMMITMENT.**

 

(But of course, he doesn’t know it yet, but you are reading  _ War and Peace _ , just very slowly.)

\- 

 

No matter the time of year, California heat greets you with a searing, passionate kiss as you make yourself outside of Bob Hope Airport. You’re home for a three-day weekend, going to wine and dine your mother in celebration of her healthy life. 

 

You spot her before she sees you and run towards her like you’ve done thousands of times before. This time, you’re the the bigger and strong one; you scoop her up in your arms. Her embrace is warm and she smells exactly the same, like childhood and comfort all in her small frame. 

 

“I’ve missed you so much,” she says.

 

“I’ve missed you too, Mom. So, so much.” 

 

California traffic is like an old-toxic high school friend—somehow all you can ever talk about, but never changing for the better. But you don’t care as you drive home to the middle of nowhere. Your mom and your aunt bought some land in farm country. The new house isn’t the same one that you knew as you were a child, but it feels good to look up stars in the sky that aren’t airplanes or streetlights. 

 

“I’m so glad that you’re home,” Mom says as you pull into the driveway.

 

You smile at her, watching as your cousins peek from the front door.

 

“Me too.”

 

“Next time you should bring a boy,” she winks.

 

“Mother!”

 

(Home is where the heart is and you’re just happy you carry yours with you.)

 

-

 

You take a sledgehammer and pound it into the wall. Tugging it out, you see there is a sizeable dent in the plaster and you grin, sweat cooling your face as you lift it and swing it again. You’re like a metronome, constantly hitting with even timing, the sound of the wall breaking music to your ears. 

 

You’ve been here for a few hours, helping Derek demo a house he plans on fixing up. You wanted to learn some hands on handyman things and he offered immediately. Plus, destroying stuff is a lot of fun. Not that you actively destroy stuff, but it’s hard not to pretend to be some robust viking alien creature hell bent on decementing the Earth. 

 

You hear a low whistle after your last smash and there is Derek standing in the doorway with a bottle of cold water. You breathe a small word of thanks before happily taking a soothing swig.

 

“Look at you go, Sunny Girl. You don’t look like much, but even I gotta admit you pack a real punch.” 

 

You stick out tongue out at him. “I’m my mother’s only child so I have to be her daughter and  son.” 

 

“How’s she doing anyway?” 

 

You wipe your forehead with the back of your hand. “She’s good. Her treatments went really well and her doctor says it looks like she’s in a state of remission. We’re just lucky we caught it so early or things could have been a lot worse.” 

 

“That’s great to hear!” he smiles. “I hope she can finally come out to visit soon.” 

 

Derek Morgan’s smile is such a sight behold. It’s warm and kind and you feel safer knowing he’s in your corner. His well-wishes and good attitude brighten your days beyond compare and you know exactly why he’s so important to Penelope. He’s just so—effervescent and wonderful to be around.

 

“Thanks, dude. And thank you for teaching me how to demo today too. I mean, it’s always the best parts of the HGTV shows and it’s kinda fun that I got to do it with such a rad person.” 

 

He laughs, deep and rich from his belly. “Consider yourself lucky,” he jokingly warns. “Not everyone is allowed to come to the properties, but you’re a quick learner. And dang girl, I never want piss you off if here is a sledgehammer hanging around!” he exclaims as he points at the now mostly damaged wall. “Look at this! You’re just going to town in here.” 

 

You giggle. “Teehee. What can I say? You just gotta grab the bull by the balls.” 

 

The room falls silent as you both realize what you both said. You sputter and start to shout.

 

“By the horns, I meant by the horns!” 

 

It’s useless over Derek’s loud laughter, vowing to never let you forget this.

 

Despite blushing madly and feeling extremely embarrassed, this day has already been perfect. You’re slowly spreading your limbs, creating friendships with the team on your own. It’s wonderful. To spend time with people one-on-one. You’ve been lonely for so long. 

 

“So, I gotta know: are you seeing anyone?” 

 

You snap your attention back to him and scoff. “Did Penelope put you up to this?”

 

“My Baby Girl might have mentioned that you’re not seeing anyone and well, I think that’s crazy. You’re young. Enjoy life. Have fun!” 

 

Your lips twist and you shake your head. “I don’t know...I don’t think I’m ready right now. I was with Matthew for a long time and now...I’m not.”

 

“But you haven’t been for how long? Like almost over a year, right?” 

 

“About a year or so, yeah. I thought he and I were going to start a life together. Get married, have two point five kids together while saving the world. But he’s in California and I’m here so. That didn’t happen.” 

 

Bitterness sits in your ribcage, reminding you of broken promises. Of the life you’ll never get to have with the man who no longer exists. 

 

“Would you want to get back together with him?” 

 

“I mean, a part of me will always love him. He was this bright innocent kid when we started college. And so, so smart. He really is intelligent.” 

 

Derek smirks. “Reid is intelligent.” 

 

You roll your eyes. “Reid is emotionally unavailable and I don’t need to be a profiler to guess what you’re gonna say next.” 

 

(You hope he doesn’t say it next. This is the one thing you don’t allow yourself to think about except in special situations.)

 

Derek puts his hands up. “Hey, wasn’t it you who said he was intimidating and awe-inspiring. And oh yes, my favorite bit, when you first met our resident genius, you called him gorgeous? Wasn’t that you or some other little adorable short stack?” 

 

“Well, yes,” you say, a seething smile on your face. “That was me, but just because Spencer is objectively attractive, doesn’t mean that I’m actually  _ attracted  _ to him. He’s a co-worker and a friend.” Derek scoffs in disbelief. “What? I can find people attractive! Ben Stiller’s cute!

 

“What? No. That’s terrible,” he chides. “Ben Stiller? Really. Ben Stiller? C’mon, if you’re going down the celebrity route, pick a better one.” 

 

“What! He has cute ears. Okay, George Clooney.”

 

“Everyone thinks Clooney is hot.  _ I  _ think Clooney is hot.” 

 

“Alright fine. Garrett Borns.”

 

“Who?”

 

“Google him.”

 

Derek does and his face breaks out in a shit-eating grin. “Oh my god. He looks almost like Reid. This is great. Is this your type? Tall and skinny?”

 

“No, my type is quirky, intelligent, and…tall,” you mumble. 

 

“So, Reid.”

 

“And Mattie! Looks nothing like Reid by the way. He’s tall, but he’s Indian, really buff, and might actually have a British accent,” you blush.

 

“I promise if you admit you’re attracted to Reid, I will stop bothering you about it.” 

 

You stomp your foot. “You’re annoying, you know that? Fine, yes. Spencer Reid is very attractive in my books. There. Happy?” 

 

Derek comes over and pats the top of your head. “Very.” 

 

-

 

Winter leaves you less cold this year, your heart warm from extra cheer. Your mom comes to visit in excellent health. You exchange presents with your co-workers and everything seems like it’s going according to plan.

 

Your heart is a little empty, wanting to sip something sweet, but you can’t fault that there is progress in friendships that nestle in the soil under your feet. You have a family away from your family, a place to call home when you feel weary. 

 

Midnight strikes and you leave kisses on everyone’s cheek, promising another sweet year with them. 

  
  


-

 

There are days when cases happen right in the heart of D.C. and your heart sinks when come across somber faces in the bullpen. Never has you worked such massive overtime, assisting Garcia with analyst duties as her back-up. You don't bother wearing makeup when your skin feels so dehydrated and the purple under your eyes a new permanent feature of your face. 

 

It is also the rare moment the team takes a small break to eat breakfast when Rossi grins at you.

 

“So, a little birdie told me that you said Reid is attractive.” 

 

Spencer, bless him, chokes on his food. You, on the other hand, almost spit out your coffee. 

 

Quickly, you turn towards the culprit and kick Derrek under the table. “You’re a snitch.” 

 

Penelope plops down beside you and steals a piece of fruit off your plate. “Technically I was the snitch.”

 

“Wow. Et tu, Brute? Betrayed. Be-trayed.” You pout and stab a piece of bacon.

 

Penelope leans her head on your shoulder. “I love you.” 

 

You playfully push her. Across the table, Spencer is beet red and you feel your face pain with a blush of your own. You clear your throat. “Well, to be fair, I think everyone on the team is super attractive. I mean, have you all looked in the mirror lately?” 

 

Derek teases. “Nice save, princess, but I know what my ears heard.” 

 

You glare at him. “Yeah, well, I thought what’s said at demo house stays in demo house, but look where we are now. But yeah, I do think Spencer is attractive…I guess.” 

 

J.J. laughs, clearly enjoying this situation far more than you realized. “You guess? My memory might not be as good at Spence’s, but I will not forget the day Spencer came super dazed to the office because this pretty girl dressed in purple called him gorgeous. I did not see or hear any brain activity for hours.” 

 

You laugh, partly due to embarrassment, partly due to surprise. “Oh my god, you thought I was pretty? That’s precious!” You place your hand under your chin, posing cutely. “You’re not wrong though!”

 

(You ignore the way your heart is speeding up. If you keep making jokes, hopefully things will go back to normal.) 

 

Spencer carefully takes a sip of coffee, avoiding making eye contact with you. “I mean, yeah. You were pretty. All dressed up for your first day of work…” he hums. “It was cute.”  

 

“Okay, but our Little Miss Sunshine here is also leaving out she finds Ben Stiller attractive,” Derek taunts. “Ben Stiller. And a Reid doppelganger.” 

 

You kick him again under the table before glaring at your other co-worker. “Rossi, look what you’ve done. I thought we have an unsub to catch and yet here we are talking about who I find attractive. This is how we’re spending the American tax dollars?”

 

“What can I say, kiddo?” he says with a soft chuckle. “Though, Garcia did say your ex was a good-looking guy.” His eyes twinkling with curiosity. 

 

You sigh in defeat and grab your phone. “Such nosey profilers, I swear,” you mutter.

 

“That’s why we’re so good at our job.” 

 

You look up Matt’s instagram and you still when you see the first picture. It’s your ex-boyfriend with a very beautiful woman, long blonde hair and perfect white teeth. You bite the inside of your cheek and swipe to the next one, thankful there’s no company in this one. 

 

You show the team your phone, a picture of Matthew shirtless on the beach with a surfboard at his side. He’s toned and bronzed, his black hair tousled perfectly atop his head. He’s definitely been hitting the gym, his arms and six pack looking good. 

 

(You definitely hope he still feels miserable and cries himself to sleep at night.)

 

J.J. lets out a low whistle. “I thought he was supposed to be quirky, not a Calvin Klein model.” 

 

You laugh. “He has his moments.” 

 

Derek looks down at his arms for a moment, his little moment of insecurity a wonderful taste of revenge. “I take back making fun of you for Ben Stiller. Geez, do all your ex-boyfriends look that good?”

 

“One looks like a mountain man now, I think; however, I’ll be sure to parade whatever new guy I end up dating next to get your seal of approval,” you say with a huff.

 

Spencer wears an unreadable expression. “Well, we’d only think about your safety.” 

 

J.J. giggles at his side, but before you can question anything, Hotch enters the room and before you know it, you’re all back to the grind.

 

-

 

Thankfully, the case ends two days later on a happy note. You’re free to have a few days off much to your relief. Freedom will only be yours if you can get to your car fast enough. Most the the team has already gone home for the day, so you find yourself alone at the elevator, waiting to go down.

 

Or, rather you think you’re alone. Spencer appears are your side, a little winded, but softly grins. 

 

“I’m so glad we can go home,” he says, engaging in small talk. 

 

Spencer doesn’t do regular small talk. His form of small talk is spewing fun facts and hoping to make the other person laugh. What in the world?

 

You cast him a sidelong glance, unsure where this is leading. “I just want waffles and cup of coffee.” 

 

He takes a deep breath. “...do you mind if I join you and—”

 

“And give you a ride home?” you continue, wanting to follow this rabbit hole. 

 

“Please?”

 

-

 

You end up in a diner not far from the office. It’s quaint with old booths and even older waitresses. You love how shabby it looks. You order coffee and waffles while Spencer does the same.

 

The car ride over was quiet, but now that you’re seated at a booth, you break the silence. “While I don’t mind the extra company, what’s on your mind?” 

 

“Nothing is on my mind,” he says quickly, ignoring your curious stare, he plays with the sugar. “I just want to spend time with my friend.” 

 

“Spencer.” 

 

He peeks at you, his face wincing. “Was I that obvious?” 

 

“A bit. Mainly because we both live in opposite directions from work and while I usually am a helpful person, I’m like literally the last person you’d ask to drive you home since it’s so out of my way and you are a polite person.” 

 

“...okay, that is all true, but—”

 

“No buts, just what’s on your mind, bud? I feel like we’re about to get extra deep up in here.”

 

Spencer taps his fingers against the wooden table. You watch as he forces himself to commit to this. “I don’t know about extra deep, but yeah, my reason is personal, if that’s okay.”

 

“Just ask and we shall see. I’m sure it’s fine.”

 

He takes his time, thinking carefully before speaking. “I just. I know you were with Matt for a long time and just…how do you know that you’re ready to move on? I thought you were planning to have a life with him and everything.” 

 

Oh. Well.

 

This was not what you were expecting.   
  


“Okay, um. Well, this isn’t the first time my heart has been broken,” you start to explain, “so I have that going for me. And yes, I originally wanted to be lifelong partners with Matt, but I understood why we didn’t work out,” you say, your words rushed and weird. “First of all, a nation was between us. Second, our goals didn’t match. And third, we changed in ways that no longer parallel each other.”

 

You mark each point with a new finger. You list them as facts, the pain of saying them out loud barely there now. 

 

He’s quiet again, your reasons hanging between you two. “And do you think you’re ready to move on?”

 

“Are you asking for my well being or for your own?” 

 

Spencer sucks in a breath of air and you wait as he thinks of an answer. You try to eat, but your waffle isn’t as good as you remembered it being. Everything feels kinda cold. 

 

“Despite losing Maeve,” he says, and you know this will not be an easy conversation. “We were only together for one hundred days give or take...and I never even held her hand, but the idea of moving on from her hurts.” 

 

You press your lips together and lean into the booth, trying to string something positive and encouraging to say to him, but you only have one though.

 

“Then don’t move on.”

 

“C’mon,” he scoffs, “even I know that’s not completely healthy.”

 

“I don’t know, Spencer. I have a great-aunt whose husband died while saving his daughter and it’s been over thirty years and she hasn’t dated anyone since. That was the love of her life, as she was the love of your life. It’s just like that sometimes.” 

 

“Yeah, she was—but I don’t know. This is the one thing I don’t know no matter how many times I try to reason it out. Just because she’s not here doesn’t mean I need to stop living...”

 

“Emotions aren’t rational, Spencer. If you don’t feel ready, you don’t feel ready. Our situations are totally different anyway. See, for me, the things I miss the most aren’t Matt. Matt can go fuck himself, but the things we did together? The way I felt? That’s what I want.” 

 

“What do you mean?” 

 

You play with a ring on your finger, needing to fidget as you open up your heart. “I miss...the security of knowing someone would always be there. I miss the dates we would go on. I miss holding hands and falling asleep to one person. I miss hugs and kisses and—just everything that makes up a relationship. Unlike you, I don’t miss a person. I miss a sequence of actions. Totally different.”

 

“Missing a sequence of actions does sound a lot better, I guess, if you have any to remember,” he says quietly, almost as if he’s confessing something he doesn’t say often.

 

Your heart aches for him. “You really never even met her once?” 

 

“No.”

 

“Not even for a date?” 

 

He shakes his head.

 

And the rest of the world goes on as normal, as if you didn’t just hear the most heart shattering thing.  The diner is still somewhat noisy in the mid-morning. A kid is laughing, a waitress is calling out orders to the kitchen, and a fork clatters to the ground, but you’re stuck processing this confirmation, your heart twisting with every moment.

 

“I apologize for the lack of filter, but holy fuck, Spencer. That shit is tragic. Like I can’t even comprehend.” You bring your hand to your mouth, wanting to cover up all the pity that’s resting on your tongue. So, you choose not to say it. “I’m sorry that that happened. And that sucks and I don’t know anything else to say, but you’re totally allowed to be hung up on this. I would be so, so, so hung up on this! Actually, I think I am getting hung up on this for you right now!” 

 

He lets out a weak laugh. “Thank you. I think you’re the first person who told me it’s okay to not move on. I... I don’t really talk about her to...anyone, but it’s kinda easier with you. You don’t make me feel like I’m obligated to feel a certain way about it. I feel less stupid about it, I guess. It was a just a mess, from start to finish.”

 

“Yeah, but who cares, it was your mess and no one can take that away from you. And it might be the romantic in me, but your relationship with her, the bits I do know, like the letters and your meet cute is rather...cute. It sounds like there is more good than bad.” 

 

“I like to think there was,” he says, pushing his food on his plate.

 

You set your fork down and lean back into your seat. You don’t need to be a profiler to see exactly what Spencer is feeling or thinking. But most importantly, you know your friend needs you and you refuse him to continue now this road alone.

 

And then an idea strikes you like lightning. Brilliant and bright, coursing delight through you as see everything coming together in your mind. 

 

“You know what,” you start, confidence in your voice. “We’re gonna do something fun. How good are you with spontaneity?”

 

“Uh, pretty good considering my job.”

 

You grin and link your fingers together. “Perfect. Okay, so tomorrow you and I are going to go an amusement park for funsies.”

 

Spencer’s mouth twists. “...funsies?” 

 

“Yes, funsies. You desperately need it. So, dress down,” you order. “Comfy shoes and jeans please.”

 

“Um.”

 

“And you can’t say no because I’m doing you a huge favor by going super out of my way to drive you home as you told me a sad story over breakfast. And I’ve been dying to go anyway, so there’s that,” you finish saying in a rush.

 

You might have presented your case more childlike than intended, but Spencer seems to take be taking it into consideration. That is a victory in itself.  

 

After a few moments, Spencer nods his head. “Okay. But there’s one problem.” 

 

“What?”

 

“I don’t own any jeans.” 

 

(You do your best not to face palm.)    
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much for everyone who is reading this. I'm so glad. This fic is truly super fun to write. Let me know how you liked it! i'm also on tumblr @obbsessedturtle :D

**Author's Note:**

> so, I started this story in December and I loved it. It truly is a slow burn. I cannot believe how much happens in this little time chunk. I was really wanted to establish reader. This is my first reader insert fic haha. 
> 
> You can also call her Sunny if you like! :D 
> 
> Please let me know how you like it and I hope you'll be ready for the next chapters from here on out because there is going to be a lot of spencer/reader or as I call them SunnyReider! from here on out :D


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